


His Was Gold

by AL_KILLER



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 'Ts pretty dark tbh, Alternate Universe - Harem, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Completely Fictional Universe NOT Based On Actual History, Concubine!Yuuri, DANCER!YUURI, Depression, Drama, Emperor!Victor, Jealousy, M/M, Monogamy through and through, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Russian Empire, Sex Slave!Yuuri, Sexual Content, Slavery, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicidal Tendencies, Tsar!Victor, VictUuri, Violence, harem au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2018-10-17 07:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 136,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10588893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AL_KILLER/pseuds/AL_KILLER
Summary: There were dozens of men and women in Tsar Victor Nikiforov’s harem, all of them attractive, ravishing, and beautiful. They wore provocative clothing, sweet smelling perfumes, and sparkling jewelry designed to catch the eye. All in hopes of being chosen by the Tsar for just one night.Yuuri was the only one in the harem who didn’t want to be chosen. Yet, Yuuri was the only one the Tsar wanted.





	1. Broken Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> As I stated in the tags, this work is completely fictional and not based on any actual historical events of Russia and/or Japan, and also, please don’t ask me what year it’s taking place. Don’t even think too much about that.
> 
> Is it the Edo period? Is it the Soviet Union Period? Does the EU even exist? We’ll never know.
> 
> The dialogue language that I use in this AU is not over the top, too ancient, or too complicated to understand. I will try to make it as simple as possible while simultaneously keeping an elegance to it to do the historical theme justice, over all I will use ASOIAF's Common Tongue as a reference. 
> 
> This story was actually inspired by Muhteşem Yüzyıl, a pretty sick (not pleasantly) Turkish show I found myself watching in my never ending, continuous strive to procrastinate.
> 
> Special thanks to the lovely [Sacchariwrites](https://www.sacchariwrites.tumblr.com) for the summary <3
> 
>  So without further ado...
> 
> Here’s another dose of angst.

  _Clipped wings, I was a broken thing_

_Had a voice, but I could not sing_

_You would wind me down_

_I struggled on the ground_

_So lost, the line had been crossed_

_Had a voice, but I could not talk_

_You held me down_

_I struggle to fly now_  

_**Sia -[Bird Set Free](https://youtu.be/CqNp-KXiAHo)**_

* * *

 

He just wanted to be a dancer.

He had fled with his own legs and free will, sneaking into the darkness of the night, unseen by the many eyes that kept him pinned since birth, every move a product of plans that were drafted for almost a decade and a half of his life.

He became one with the shadows, climbed the high gates, hid in carriages and boats, squeezing his small frame into anything that managed to cover his existence, long enough for the harsh, hopeful trips to last until he was finally past the borders, past the wall that separated the empire of Japan from the outside civilization, and past the barrier that, although never moved, kept striking him with heavy blows of oppression since the day he opened his eyes to the world.

And he ran.

He ran as far as his legs could carry him, away from the docks, away from the ships and boats, body filled with exhaustion and mind almost being feasted on by fear and anxiety.

And not long after, he was captured.

Not by the palace guards that would bring him back to his cage, not by the pirates that raided the docks, not by the bandits that roamed the streets, no, whatever gods that had watched over him, had witnessed his act of betrayal and sin, decided to force their harshest forms of punishments upon him so that they, in his desperate pursuit of freedom, had sent a party of slave merchants his way.

 _’I’m running away.’_ She had told him, with a smile that made men red with desire, with boldness that filled women with envy.

 _’From the palace?’_ he had asked, all expected innocence of a six year old boy.

 _’To Russia.’_ She said, her smile faltering before she continued, deciding to trust her student with her secret, in which, he now thinks, wasn’t supposed to stay a secret for too long. _‘At first, then to India, then to Ukraine, The Netherlands, England, then to wherever the wheels take me.’_

_’But sensei! T-that’s-’_

_’I know.’_ She said frankly, sadly. _‘I know.’_

_’Why would you-’_

_’Because I want to be a dancer!'_ she yelled, not from anger or impatience, but with excitement that he thought was absolutely bizarre, excitement that forced her mouth into the biggest grin he had ever seen. _“I want to be a dancer, Yuuri!'_

_’But you already are! You’re the most talented dancer in the whole empire!’_

_’A dancer who hasn’t seen the world doesn’t have the right to claim that title,’_ she said fiercely, _‘I was never one, but I’m going to be, fully fledged and indestructible, and no man is going to stop me, not anymore.’_ She turned toward the window, her skin the color of pearls under the moonlight; she had never looked more beautiful in his eyes. _‘My dreams are waiting for me to fulfill them, and I shall do them justice.’_

_’But they will find you!’_

_’So be it,’_ she shrugged, _‘This is the last you’ll ever see of me, either way,’_ only then did the excitement cease, the lines of her mouth returning to their solemn shape. _‘Yuuri,’_ she looked down to the boy clutching at her thighs. _‘You’re from a noble house and believe me, you have it better than all the rest of us folks out there. They might’ve surrounded you with illusions, but at least yours are pretty ones.’_ She held his shoulders in a tight grip, her brown eyes piercing through his lighter ones. _‘Don’t ever attempt to follow my footsteps, little one.’_

But Yuuri never promised her, the last memory of that encounter was of him desperately shouting her name as she waved away, fading and becoming a form of his imagination, a distant recollection.

And then, after being beaten half to death, crippled into submission, sold to seemingly endless days of slavery, every last bit of his dignity and free will being stripped away from him, Yuuri remembered, vividly and harshly.

And he did the exact same thing his childhood self did almost ten years ago, every night as he forced himself to stay awake and not surrender to the tempting darkness.

He chanted her name, over and over again, like a prayer, the only form he now believed in.

Minako.

_Minako._

_**Minako.**_

 

 

* * *

 

He stared at his armlet like it was a device that recorded all of his past mistakes, gone the swelled and red area and only now he could see the sharp contrast between his pale skin and the _gold_ in blinding revelation.

His was gold, not metallic like the most of them, not bronze like the ones rich people bought, nor silver like the ones nobles purchased.

 _’Such a precious merchandise.’_ The man who had captured him said, his smile ugly and terrifying, his grip tight on his broken jaw. _‘Look at your eyes; people would kill to have you. You’re going to make me the richest man in this town.’_

Yuuri, throughout the next years of his wretched life, would realize that everything that had happened to him was because of these eyes and nothing else, not any other detail, not any other trait, not any other aesthetic part of him, not his social status, not his body, not his gender, it was just _his eyes_ that brought him to the deepest depths of hell.

_’They are so narrow, yet your pupils are so huge, so brown, so beautiful.’_

It was, in the most disgusting, degrading way possible, the reason why the auction blew up when Yuuri was offered for the taking, the reason why a well-known noble was the biggest bidder and his first owner, the reason why the merchant became rich overnight and a golden ring was molten to fit punishingly into Yuuri’s arm that same day.

Because the nobleman didn’t purchase him for his own house, or else his armlet would’ve been silver per ritual, no, the man had purchased him specifically to be sent as a gift to gain influence from the court in the nearby nation, the place Yuuri was sent to a week later.

His was gold, the ring that only the most valuable slaves wore, the slaves that only served the royal families.

 

* * *

 

_Ten seconds. Four months. Two weeks._

It was a pattern that seldom changed, a pattern that Yuuri had come to predict on instinct, a cycle that haunted him like a curse.

It started from Russia, the place where all of Yuuri’s dreams dissolved into fragments, where the lethal chain of reaction sparked and took place, then it was China, where the nobleman took him for the emperor’s palace, then it became a continuous loop that passed by Yuuri’s life and never seemed to end.

_Ten seconds._

That’s how long it usually took for his new owner to examine his face, see his eyes, and realize that he was different, that he was somehow more valuable than the rest.

 _’They are so narrow,’_ they would always say until Yuuri had forgotten who had said it first. _‘Yet your pupils are so huge, so brown, so beautiful.’_

His new owner would instantly know that someone else would love to add him to their slave collection, to put him into better use.

Ten seconds was also the time it took for them to decide that he was going to be a gift for some other family to strengthen their relations, whoever their allies were; they always varied, they were always unpredictable with his nonexistent understanding of politics.

_Four months._

They would put him under training to legitimize their brand before deporting him.

Those were constant; they would teach him bits of their language, rituals, and religious practices. They would teach him how to talk, how to eat, dress, move, breathe, bow, respect, and most important of all, they would teach him _fear_ , they would teach him how to know his place, how to never dream of freedom ever again, how it was just a fruitless delusion, and that, surely, was accomplished by using cruel methods, constant brainwashing, and undeserved punishments.

Not quite undeserved, as every Madam who trained him would say, because he was nothing more than a slave, and whatever was inflected on a slave, was the treatment they deserved.

Yet, with him, they always added a different sort of training.

He would learn how to move in special ways in only special times, how to recite their poems, and sing their songs, and _dance their dance_ , dances that once were the sheer wish of his to learn, that only became another form of punishment to perform.

They always had one aim, and none else, they derived from the art that he grew up loving, yet separated to create a theme he loathed and despised with all of his heart.

Pleasure. Seduction. Arousal.

Their sole purpose was everything but the art he wanted to practice.

That’s the object they were slowly morphing him into, keeping him pure, yet at the same time engraving sinful skills into his being that he was terrified of the day he had to use them.

 _’A concubine.’_ They would call him, but even with his limited practice in their various languages, Yuuri would soon come to realize that people weren’t allowed to address a royal slave with the correct term, and that this word was only a thin coat of gold that covered the rusty metal underneath.

He wasn’t a woman for them to procreate with; he wasn’t a female that could give them heirs, so Yuuri wasn’t, in any logical sense, a concubine.

He was a sex slave, for them to use to satisfy their sick pleasures, for them to degrade, to put him in their harems, to have him whenever they wished.

A royal whore to be.

_Two weeks._

He would spend that time mostly in ships or carriages, his soul losing its essence with every transportation.

By the end of those two weeks, Yuuri would find himself in another nation, in another palace, only to be brainwashed anew.

Because there always was someone more powerful that would have him better, someone who would love to add him to their collection more than their current owners, someone that would appreciate him as a gift, a unique sex slave, pure and untouched, with eyes from the Forbidden Kingdom.

The cycle would repeat itself again, and again, and again, until eventually, only little of his soul would remain.

_’Don’t ever attempt to follow my footsteps, little one.’_

But Yuuri still won’t listen, Yuuri will still use whatever he had left of him to chant her name in the darkness, until the syllables blur and the sound becomes incoherent.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri wondered how the gods could harbor such endless wrath, how they were still capable, after five years of adamant punishments, to continue and never falter.

The cycle had repeated itself so many times that Yuuri had lost his understanding of the world, slowly forgetting who he was and what was his purpose of living before he learned all those languages, before he learned all the dances and songs and poems or learned how to seduce men and women in theory, but never in practice.

And soon enough he was back to the starting point, and he had never been more frightened since the day his golden ring was clasped into his upper arm.

He slipped his pinky finger underneath the thick metal, rubbing it slowly against the tender skin with tight friction, easing the itch that was constantly there. The tip of his forefinger touched the lock hole, and the view of the palace before him only helped to diminish whatever hopes of freedom he had left.

Russia.

The place where all of Yuuri’s dreams dissolved into fragments, where the lethal chain of reaction sparked and took place.

It was almost a hysterical realization; Yuuri knew that no one wanted him, that no one will want to keep him, but to think that he had crossed oceans and seas and continents, only to go back to where he had initially started, was somehow a marvelous achievement.

Perhaps that’s how he would keep living, from ship to ship, carriage to carriage, palace to palace, until his life would pass by without any contribution from his part, perhaps he could finally be able to slide a blade against his throat without the fear of giving up on the potential future he might have.

Perhaps this time would be a successful attempt, unlike the other ones; perhaps he will finally have the courage to end his miserable life.

_**Minako.** _

 

His grip tightened painfully around his arm, cutting most of the circulation for a few seconds, his hand trembling with fear.

 

* * *

 

He stood in a line, similar to any other one he stood on before, countless times in countless places, Yuuri was merely waiting for the cycle to resume, for the ten seconds countdown to begin the moment a Madam would demand him to look up and meet the eyes of his new owner.

Though, he assumed, she would be called something else in this country, Yuuri did find that his ability to learn was faster when he was in France.

She walked back and forth, inspecting each new slave carefully, seven to ten they were, but Yuuri couldn’t exactly estimate, his eyes were glued dutifully on the tiled floor at his feet, the woman’s gaze piercing through each of their bodies that, once again, he felt almost naked and violated.

Yuuri knew the worst part was when they would do the body inspection, but he pushed the thought back. He had gone through it enough times that it became numb like almost everything else that had been done to him.

Even with his well built mentality when it came to those rituals, he found that his heart was beating so harshly against his ribcage that his chest hurt, his breathing becoming heavier by the second, like stones moving through his esophagus.

Because he could sense it, a gaze heavier than the woman’s, fixated and powerful, pinned on him since the moment he stepped into the hall, before he managed to hide his face.

His eyes. His eyes.

Whoever it was, they must have seen _his eyes._

At that moment, he knew there won’t even be ten seconds before he’s sent away.

”The Tsar is watching you from the gallery.” The woman finally spoke loudly behind them, her Russian slow enough for Yuuri to understand. “Don’t look up, it’s not your place to.”

Yuuri’s breath hitched, his head started to pound, and his already blurry vision had turned completely useless to his surroundings.

The Tsar. Their emperor. His new owner.

He saw it.

He saw it before Yuuri even started counting.

He saw his eyes and it was already time for him to go.

She took her time, filtering the ones she did not deem useful, the too old, the too young, the too unhealthy, the too ugly, until only four of them were left, Yuuri the only male.

The woman stood directly in front of him and he was ready, ready for her to receive instructions on where to send him next, whatever other nation, to whoever prince or king or emperor it might be this time.

He could see in his limited vision that she was looking up to the gallery, her face a mixture of three colors of skin that caught Yuuri by surprise.

He did not have enough time to realize that her face was an aftermath of burns before she nodded, suddenly placing a firm, somehow comforting hand on his shoulder, pulling him away from the rest until Yuuri stood one foot in front of the line.

He was taken aback by the strange warmth, since even after three years of being traded all over the world and to all sorts of owners, Yuuri was rarely touched physically outside of practice or necessity. There always was an unspoken rule not to touch a pure, royal concubine, for their worth was estimated only by their purity.

Yuuri heard several footsteps above them that slowly disappeared after a loud bark, indicating that the Tsar and his attendance had left the gallery.

”From this day on,” she announced, addressing all of them despite her physical contact with Yuuri, “You’ll be granted the honor of serving the imperial family of Russia. You are expected to serve without question, in absolute loyalty and without hesitance under the Tsar and his relations.” She paused, her tone loudening as she continued, “You are now a property of His Well Born and His Majesty, the ruler of the Great Russian Empire, Viktor the Third of the Nikiforov House.”

Her final words were a whisper, only meant for him to hear, a sad, rich voice filled with sympathy and softness that it earlier lacked as she spoke close to his ear, and Yuuri had never wished to have put that blade into his throat like he did then. “You, pretty one, will be a part of the Tsar’s harem.”

He gulped, the very last bits of his dignity, worthiness, and hope getting crushed to a thousand pieces, all wasted and pushed down with the bile on his throat.

_He just wanted to be a dancer._


	2. Royal Blue

  _Wrapped up, so consumed_

_By all this hurt_

_If you ask me_

  _Don't know where to start_

_Anger, love, confusion_

_Rolls the gold nowhere_

_-_

_Came to you with a broken faith_

_Gave me more than a hand to hold_

_Caught before I hit the ground_

_Tell me I'm safe, you've got me now_

_**Jess Glynne -[Take Me Home](https://youtu.be/KNO0XFN8vIw)**_

* * *

 

Misery couldn’t begin to describe the storm of feelings that hit Yuuri, all at once, without warning or mercy.

He was certain, so foolishly certain, that after years of that continuous loop, no one would actually claim him, that the day someone would find him desirable and good enough to keep would never come.

He hadn’t allowed their empty words to pass through his barrier, he couldn’t allow himself to believe that he was _precious_ as they claimed, _valuable_ like they always said, or _beautiful_ as most of them called him.

He knew he wasn’t any of that; he was just different to them, out of the ordinary; he merely had eyes that people weren’t accustomed to see, but he was a dime of dozen all the same.

Yet, someone eventually proved them right.

And that someone happened to be the Tsar of Russia.

Fear like no other struck his frame, the night the slave merchant captured him and beat him bloody couldn’t have compared to what he was now feeling, helpless, powerless, and so completely alone.

Painful recollections made their unwelcomed appearance in his mind, the most striking was of the first time a Madam called him for private training.

He remembered how she took him to a dark room, undressed him, and sat him down, her eyes swallowing his body whole.

He remembered how she never touched him, but forced Yuuri to follow her orders and touch himself, in places that had never been violated before that night, his own hands turning filthy on his skin with every defiling movement.

 _’Relax,’_ she used to say, ignoring the sight of his tears, his humiliation. _‘You’ll get used to it.’_

_’It’s what they all want you for.’_

_’You have to know what to do, they will expect you to.’_

_’It will be painful, it always is, but you can never show it.’_

_’When the time comes, don’t struggle.’_

After so long, after so many sessions from different teachers, each one more repulsing than the one before it, he had convinced himself that the time would never come, that he would somehow keep his innocence as a former noble intact until he wouldn’t be forced to hand it away along with everything else he had given.

But reality never ceased to bring him down.

His hands and knees trembled, his feet refusing to move even after all the other slaves had left the hall.

What will become of him? How long will it take? Will it ever end?

Will he finally reach for that blade?

_‘Don’t ever attempt to follow my footsteps, little one.’_

_Minako_ , he chanted desperately, _Minako, Minako, Minako._

_Minako._

_Minako._

_Minako._

”-ss Minako.”

His breath hitched.

Russian filled his ears from various sources, sounds varying from hushed to loud that he couldn’t pick their exact meaning; they never taught him beyond basic words and phrases before he was sent there.

Yuuri’s body stilled, his eyes struggling for focus but to no avail, they seldom helped him with anything but turn his life into a misery, they couldn’t even help him _see_ well enough.

But his ears helped, his ears that were now filled with a long, torturing ring, helped.

Because amidst the destructive thoughts and whirlwinds of fear, Yuuri failed to notice a very important detail.

The woman, the woman with the burned face.

She had spoken to him in _Japanese_ , clean, pure, and unaccented Japanese.

And just then, merely a few seconds ago, someone had called _her name_.

”Miss Minako.”

 _Again_.

Someone was calling her in the present and it wasn’t coming from the voices inside his head, not this time.

“Miss Minako, you are needed in the west wing.”

”Aye,” it was a voice he had long forgotten, but the memories were thundering back in when the woman turned, her Russian flawless, but tone unmistakable. “I’ll head there after I'm finished here.”

He heard footsteps behind him, and Yuuri, for the first time since he came there, finally lifted his head, and turned around shakily, his eyes widening at the sight before him.

”Oi, pretty one,” she forced a smile, nodding toward the exit. “It’s time to go.”

”Minako.” Yuuri spoke, voice chocked and eerie, “ _Minako._ ” He walked toward her slowly, knowing from the expression taking over her features that he looked absolutely insane. “M-Minako… Minako… _Minako-sensei?!”_

Her eye went wide, her pupil dilating three times as large at the name, “Yuu-”

 _”Minako-sensei._ ” Yuuri almost shouted, his voice echoing through the space around them. Desperately, his hands flew to her direction, covering her cheeks tightly with his trembling palms, forcing her head to bend upward. His hold was harsh, despite himself, “W-what are you – how did you - your… your _face_ \- oh, my god… you’re beautiful face – who-”

A strong, forceful hand came in between them, pushing Yuuri away from her roughly, almost making him stumble backwards with the strength of it.

”You are a property of the Tsar.” The guard said, his voice cold as ice, his dark eyes livid. “Know your place.”

It was easy to forget, it was easy to see a light of hope and forget the situation he was in, but nothing failed to remind Yuuri of what he was, of who he belonged to, of who he was allowed to touch and who was the only person allowed to touch him.

Because for a concubine, intimacy toward anyone but their owner was merely a sin.

Only then did he see her clearly from the short distance. Not being blinded by emotions any longer, and the guard’s short height not blocking the view entirely, Yuuri was able to to see one of her eyes, permanently closed, a net of burns stretching from it and toward the side of her forehead, exposing a part of her scalp. Another trail started from under her clothes, moving toward her neck, across her jaw, and ending at her lower lip.

One of the most beautiful women of the Japanese empire was gone and replaced by a form Yuuri could barely recognize.

Because what was beauty against the cruelty of the world?

Minako blinked, the combination of her pink, red, and pale face turning into nonchalance. She smiled warmly, her hand resting on the guard’s arm between them.

“Ah, you protect me in such tactical ways, Otabek.” She said, “It’s alright, I know this man.”

The guard lowered his arm, yet his eyes didn’t leave him, nor the coldness in them. He was frightening, Yuuri thought, despite how young he looked. “Are you sure, Miss Minako?”

Her smile dropped. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Yuuri stood still, his heartbeat escalating to the point of pain, his mind a jumble of maddening realizations. His hand reached out to his armlet on instinct, and her eye followed it, the emotions warming the brown color into a glassier shade. He froze, suddenly feeling utterly ashamed.

”Come.” Minako said, her tone hardly as leveled as she tried to make it sound, the devastation in his former dance teacher was clear as day. “Follow me.”

She exchanged a couple of quick whispers with the guard, avoiding eye contact with him as she then moved toward the exit, faster than was considered necessary, Yuuri having no choice but to trail after her, the eyes of everyone present piercing holes into his head.

He watched her back, and remembered, once upon a time, when he had to look up to see her clearly, since she was always above his level of sight. But now, even with the fact that Yuuri was considerably taller, he still had to look up.

He was still beneath her, and this time, it had nothing to do with height.

It was just human identity now.

 

* * *

 

A few years, almost a lifetime ago, Yuuri could have never known the true value of affection, something that he had taken for granted since birth, something he was accustomed to and would have never thought would be denied from him for so long.

She had broken down the moment she took Yuuri to her private quarters.

Her arms around him were warm, warmer than the fireplace in the corner of that dark, small room.

Her hair was soft, softer than the fur rug under his freezing bare feet, its scent divine and a reminder of _home_.

Her voice was painful music in his ears, filled with sobs and exclamations of sadness and despair.

” _Yuuri_ ,” she whispered, pained and helpless, her tears soaking his clothed shoulder. “Oh, Yuuri, what have you _done_?”

”I’m sorry... I’m sorry… I’m so-”

“I told you… I _told_ you not to, I had told you _so many_ times.”

”I’m sorry. _I’m sorry_.” He repeated, again and again and again, not knowing what else to say. “I’m _so_ sorry. Sensei, please forgive me – please, _please_ …”

”Yuuri,” she gasped softly, painfully, “How can I forgive _myself?!_ ”

 

* * *

 

It might have been hours, or mere minutes, but he couldn’t tell. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that in each other’s arms, with endless streams of tears, with endless hurtful conversations about the past, its cruelty, and its mistakes, as Yuuri recalled all the series of events that had gotten him to the state she found him in.

He didn’t know who was more broken after it, Minako, or himself.

At some point, she couldn’t take it anymore, her feet giving out until she forced herself to detach from him and sit on the desk behind them, suddenly looking years older than she was before the conversation started.

”They think that I’m inspecting you, so don’t worry; you’ll be safe for the night.” Minako finally spoke, after long minutes of silence, “Yuuri,” she sighed, her voice gruff from crying, “What am I going to _do_ with you?”

”I can dance,” he said, his fingers playing with the golden armlet unconsciously, only when Minako looked at it the same way she did before did he stop. “I can sing, I speak four languages fluently and can understand almost eight. I can read, I can write, I can clean, cook, garden, draw, sculpt, sew,” he paused, sinking into the chair in front of her. “Anything,” he gulped, his voice turning into a weak whisper. “I can do _anything_ , just don’t send me there.”

”Yuuri…” she rubbed a hand down her face, “If you have been in the trade for so long, then you should know that it’s not in my hands.” She frowned, but not at him. “There is not much that I can do.”

“I know but-”

”The Tsar saw you and assigned you in the harem himself,” she interrupted him, “His wishes are _law_ , you understand that, don’t you? Disobeying him is a crime against the empire. You will be hanged if you even-”

”Then _so be it_.” His hands clutched into fists on his lap, his words venomous. “I’d… I’d rather _die_ anyway.”

”Don’t say such things.” Her good eye narrowed at him in poorly disguised anger. “Don’t say such things to me, not after all this.”

”Then what do you expect me to do?!” Yuuri exclaimed, “Sensei, I-”

”There’s not much, but there’s some.”

”Huh?”

She groaned tiredly, rummaging through the papers on the table in front of her. “I can’t stand by as they turn you into a whore, now, can I?”

”You won’t?”

She smiled thinly for a second before her glare returned to the papers, “A banquet will be held in a week, in the honor of the Tsesarevich - the heir of the empire,” Minako started, ”He’s the Tsar’s cousin, and they will be celebrating his permanent move into the castle...” Her hands stopped their rummaging in sudden realization. “You have to dance there, Yuuri,” Minako clinched her teeth, “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to prevent that.” She looked at him determinedly, her next words filled with reassurance. “After you manage through this, I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. I’ll hide you when it’s necessary and reassign you all over the castle every time I can, but you have to stay in the harem, I don’t want suspicions drawn to you.”

Minako must have seen the fear in his eyes as her posture changed to a stiffer one.

”He chooses a concubine once every fortnight; they call it 'the Taking'. I’ll find you excuses to keep you away then, I know I can do it.” She said, “The Tsar prefers men, but lately he lays with women so people won’t accuse him of not wanting heirs. Also, there are new concubines coming in into the castle almost every week, it won’t be hard to remain unseen.”

”Dancing in a banquet will make it hard.” Yuuri replied bitterly.

”The Tsar already knew you were a dancer.” Her eye met both of his in serious contemplation. “Originally, I was going to recruit you for that reason only. You see, your previous owner claimed many things about you and your talent. I’ve heard all of it myself.” The statement was almost laced with pride, but worry dominated it, “That’s why I was there; I don’t come to see new slaves often.” She put a hand under her chin, uncertain, “I don’t know why the Tsar did what he did, but he indicated you… almost instantly.”

”S-sensei…” Yuuri pursed his lips, each new information more scary than the other. He didn’t know where to even begin, let alone process what she was telling him. It seemed important, but he couldn’t focus any longer. “I… I can’t dance. Not in front of a large crowd like that. Not yet. I can’t. It was only that one time-”

”You have to.” Her burnt jaw tightened, as if what she was hearing was nonsense. “Your previous owner told him that you’re the best dancer he had seen, and the Tsar is expecting to see just that.” She sucked in a long breath, “Yuuri, I don’t want _any_ surprises, good or bad; he does unexpected things when he’s surprised. At least, if you danced like they said you would, he will be more forgiving when I tell him that you’re sick or unable to be present in the harem during the Taking, if he ever noticed, that is.”

His gaze glued on his lap, the fear and anxiety returning, crippling his tongue.

”Yuuri, listen to me. Don’t be scared.” She put her hand on his, “This is all just for precaution, you understand? The Tsar is very forgetful, and there are so many concubines in the harem he probably won’t see you even if you were there. I’m only making sure you’re safe, little one, just do as I say.” She laced their fingers, smiling. “No surprises, alright?”

He nodded stiffly. “No surprises.”

But then again, Yuuri never knew what the Tsar considered as a surprise, and what he didn’t.

Someday, he’ll come to regret not knowing.

 

* * *

 

The imperial harem was everything that Yuuri expected it to be, and everything he wished it wasn’t.

Slaves, young, lively, and the prettiest he had seen in one place, dressed in expensive silk and covered with jewels, serving as the dishes that were waiting to be feasted on, competing with each other on which one looked more appetizing.

He had never mingled long enough to understand the true nature and mindset of those slaves, since Yuuri spent most of his days as a special case, a gift that was being prepared and isolated from the rest, a dish that was getting cooked slowly so it could be sent to another table; he was never a part of them.

But now he was, now he was where he belonged, where he would stay until his body was useless.

And they weren’t like him.

They never feared to be devoured, they were never afraid of what was coming, of what they presented to the rest of the world.

Quite the contrary, they all seemed _buoyant_ in regards to their position, and anything that compromised it was a danger to them.

They stared at him with pure hatred and resentment the moment he stepped into their space, for merely being there. They kept their distance and whispered spite behind his back whenever he as much breathed in their direction.

When they were not busy seeing him as a threat and glaring begrudgingly his way, they were preparing themselves with massive excitement, finding the perfect dresses to wear, the shiniest jewelry to decorate themselves with, and debating in utmost seriousness on the style of their hair for the banquet.

Soon he learned that in the mind of the concubines around him, being chosen by the Tsar was one of the greatest privileges of their lives.

It fit, but Yuuri tried to not believe it. He tried not to believe that they were fancying themselves as bodies of sex and pleasure, and nothing else.

He, incredulously, began to realize that he was the only one who was scared and revolted by the idea of being there.

 _’Not many could be royal concubines, Yuuri, they are probably being treated better than they ever were before slavery,’_ Minako tried to explain to him, albeit Yuuri knew she didn’t quite understand it herself. _‘Many of them were trained from a very young age; it’s their purpose of life to serve the Tsar, to be in his bed.’_

He also realized, in absolute relief, that his biggest fear was not reasonable to begin with, because there were so many pretty faces and desirable bodies inside the walls of the harem, so many he couldn’t count, colorful, unique, attractive and all _willing_ , that Yuuri knew the chances of him being chosen one day was practically none at all.

The Tsar never picked a concubine more than once, he learned, yet the ones that were chosen, especially the women, were considered lucky, blessed, and they were easy to distinguish from the rest, with the way they walked with pride, wearing twice the amount of jewels, dressed in the more expensive silk, and radiating with the widest smirks.

One of the biggest reasons for the insanity surrounding him was the fact that the Tsar was, presumably, quite gorgeous.

Yuuri had never seen him, having avoided exposure like it was poisonous ever since he arrived. But Yuuri had heard so many things from so many different people that he began to believe that the man must’ve looked mythical. He was nothing short of a god in their eyes, judging by the poetry told about him on every waking minute.

 _’The Tsar?’_ Minako didn’t even think too hard about it when he asked her, _‘Honestly speaking, he’s more beautiful than the whole harem combined.’_

Minako didn’t exaggerate or fawn over him, she never did, not as far as Yuuri had seen. His looks were completely irrelevant to her.

So Yuuri already decided that it was true.

The Tsar was young; twenty four as of last winter, with eyes that were bluish, green, turquoise, teal, or sapphire – everyone described it very differently. He was graceful, as expected, charming, as everyone claimed, and most desirable feature of all, was that he was the ruler of the Russian empire, one, if not _the most_ powerful nation in the world currently.

And he was frighteningly lustful. Yuuri knew that even though no one had told him; his concubines were constantly replaced, removed, and recruited from every country around the world. There were new faces almost every day, countless bodies for one man to claim.

It was _disgusting_.

The most irrational part was that their hatred for Yuuri was ever present and not fading. In custom, only Madams chose new concubines for the harem, based on the amount of training each of them received and their physical appeal, hence it was a rare occasion that their Tsar would pick one himself.

And Yuuri was picked, for _his eyes_ , and they loathed him for it.

He constantly wanted to shout at them, tell them to look at the mirrors, notice what they all had and he didn’t, compare themselves to him and _see_ that he was not one of them, that he was not even close to being handsome, let alone presentable when he stood in the same light as these men and women.

 _’Why is he here?’_ The whispers never failed to reach his ears, from every mouth and corner around him. _‘His eyes are so strange and horrid.’_

_’He thinks he’s special.’_

_’The sight of him sickens me.’_

_’When are they going to get rid of him?’_

_’He doesn’t deserve to be here.’_

_’Did the Tsar really choose him?’_

_’Look at him.’_

_’Cocky.’_

_’Arrogant. ’_

_’Undeserving.’_

_’Worthless’_

_’Ugly.’_

_’Hideous’_

_’Ugly.’_

_’Ugly.’_

_’Ugly.’_

One day, he began to think, one day, he would bring that blade he so badly craved, and instead of sliding it across his neck, he would stab both of his eyes so all this could end.

 

* * *

 

“Here,” Minako shuffled into the room hurriedly, a bundle of black silk in her hand, “Wear this, it’s the best I could find.”

Yuuri sat there, in Minako’s private courters, anxiety rubbing her ugly hands around the surface of his mind, the loud sounds of music and chatter outside the room making everything seem worse.

”Yuuri?”

He took the outfit from her unwillingly, his palms trembling and sweaty. The music turned louder. The chatter was deafening. “I can’t do this.”

”Here, look at me.” Minako grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her in the eye. “Relax.”

_’Relax, you’ll get used to it.’_

His lips trembled.

She noticed the almost dangerous shift of his aura and pulled away, standing with her hands still and gaze thoughtful.

This shouldn’t have been happening, not now. He knew Minako had far more important duties to attend to than his pathetic dilemma. Yuuri still didn’t understand what her role in the castle was, since they avoided that subject willfully. He didn’t ask what had happened to her face and body either, or how she was captured and enslaved, but he knew that the whole banquet was organized by her and that she was far more important than he comprehended.

Furthermore, his panic was unreasonable; Yuuri _knew_ that. He had spent the entire week listening as the choirs practiced the music in the halls, his piece already memorized, his dance choreographed and ready, every movement polished to perfection.

But the sounds were _so loud_.

There were _so many_ people outside.

And he had to expose himself, to them, to _him_.

He spotted the red from the corner of his eyes, the color inviting and seductive. Yuuri quickly grabbed the large container of wine with shaking hands, pulling the head of it into his mouth and sipping down the alcohol with fearful gulps, hoping that it would work like the last time they forced him to perform in front of a crowd.

The liquid was spilling over his chin, and Yuuri barely calmed himself down to swallow any of it, the bitterness too harsh on his tongue.

He heard a soft sigh, and the glass container was taken away from him. Minako gently placed it on the table, a small smile on her lips. “I’m selfish, Yuuri.”

He looked at her uncertainly. ”W-what?”

”I’m not the woman I used to be,” she said, “Now, now I can barely stretch my leg,” she lifted her leg ever so slightly as a demonstration, the movement not even resembling a large step, yet she winced in pain and it proved that yes, Yuuri’s suspicions were right, and it wasn’t only her face that was burned beyond repair. The gods were crueler than he thought. “I haven’t danced in years,” her leg returned to the floor shakily, “But I was excited for tonight, more than I should be.”

Yuuri understood what she was telling him, and he closed his eyes, his breathing returning to its stable crescendo.

”I want to see what my oldest student can do, aren’t I selfish?” she said in amusement, “But you will show me, won’t you? Maybe I could get a glimpse of my old self tonight, or who knows, maybe even something better.”

”You will.” Yuuri found himself saying, his words a promise. “You will.”

Her smile broadened. ”I’m looking forward to it, little one.”

 

* * *

 

If freedom was a lover, then Yuuri was completely heartbroken.

The piece he was given wasn’t unfamiliar, since he had danced to it times before and he found the true meaning behind every beat and lyric corresponded too fittingly to what he was experiencing. It was always easy to display longing and despair, when Yuuri felt those emotions so often and without fail.

He muted the sounds, he blinded his eyes and refused to face the hundreds of people around him, gazes harsh and expectations high on the dancer in the middle of the hall, giving them the display of art they demanded.

The chandelier above him was sparkling and animated as Yuuri broke into his opening pose, his neck bent upward and the back of his hand brushing delicately across his forehead, his body twirling in sync around its axis. He swayed to the side, the steps of his dance done almost unconsciously as he lost himself with the music of the violins.

The piece was originally an opera, but there was no singer this time, just easy, enchanting strokes of melody, picking up speed smoothly as Yuuri stretched his arm forward, grabbing for the love that was taken away before he had a taste of it.

He was dancing for freedom, longing for it, pleading for it to return, to stay close to him and never leave.

With his eyes closed, he could imagine it; him, dancing without a golden armlet, on the biggest stage there ever was, where people paid to see him perform, to see him dressed in an outfit he himself chose, an outfit that wasn’t so strikingly feminine, not hugging his waist too tightly, restricting his movement, the loose straps on his shoulders not revealing so much skin, the pants he wore not so wide and difficult to dance with, and the golden chocker around his neck, matching his armlet, not there at all to make it hard for him to breathe.

He could imagine it; a suit, sparkly, comfortable, graceful, and _blue._ He loved wearing blue, but no one ever gave him blue to wear. They always dressed him in black and red – the colors of seduction, but Yuuri didn’t want to seduce anyone. He just wanted to dance, to dive in blue, and silver, not gold, he didn’t want gold anymore.

The picture was so vivid he was smiling, sadly and mournfully. Both of his hands were in front of him, beckoning for his forbidden love to join him, and Yuuri opened his eyes.

Blue.

 _That_ blue, exactly like he imagined it.

He could dance for it now, without closing his eyes. It was right in front of him, bluer than anything he had ever seen.

And he danced, his gaze returning to it on every turn and sway, so easy to find, always on him and never leaving even for a fraction of a second. The music was reaching its peak, but Yuuri could barely hear it; he didn’t need the music to guide him, when he danced, he made his own music, the melody followed _him_ and not the other way around.

He was soaring, because how couldn’t he? When he had just seen the most bewitching blue that ever was?

His arms crossed around each other, his spine bending into an arch and his palms resting on each of his shoulders. Yuuri’s eyes found the chandelier again, and it turned blurrier, the sparkles not as intense as they were before. His body was aflame, his face turning red from exhaustion, the flush no doubt spreading down to his neck.

Yuuri’s vulnerability returned, stronger than ever, the fear doubling in strength as the entire hall filled with silence.

He heard a loud clap, singular and powerful. And suddenly the whole medium around him erupted in the loudest noise in pursuit, deafening applause and various fiery exclamations, in all languages he could recognize.

And Yuuri was scared.

He was scared. Because the Tsar’s eyes were so blue, his hair was so silver, his clapping was so loud, and he was the most beautiful man he had ever seen.


	3. A Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Titles of royalty (according to this universe):_
> 
> **Tsar:** King/Emperor/Supreme ruler
> 
>  **Tsarina:** Queen/Empress/Supreme ruler/Wife of a Tsar
> 
>  **Tsesarevich:** Prince and the heir presumptive
> 
>  **Tsarevich:** Prince/Son of a Tsar
> 
>  **Tsarevna:** Princess/Daughter of a Tsar
> 
>  **Grand Duke:** Brother/Uncle of a Tsar
> 
>  **Grand Duchess:** Sister/Aunt of a Tsar
> 
>  **Duke/Duchess:** Cousin of a Tsar

_The lights go out and I can't be saved_

  _Tides that I tried to swim against_

  _Have brought me down upon my knees_

_Oh I beg, I beg and plead_

_-_

_Come out of things unsaid_

_Shoot an apple off my head_

_And a trouble that can't be named_

_A tiger's waiting to be tamed_  

**Coldplay -[Clocks](https://youtu.be/OUe63wQByjc)**

* * *

 

He didn’t know how long he stood there with his back against the wall, paralyzed and still in shock, blood pumping harder than it usually did after his performances, and the cold outside almost numbing his lips and nose to a point where he could barely feel them.

The orchestra inside was as loud as it was possible, but his ears were blocking the melodies. The applause had died down. The foreign praises around him concluded. The next dancers, all of them not slaves, had taken the spotlight. And Yuuri was once again alone and lost, his mind drifting back to the never ending abyss of nightmares he didn’t want to recall.

The merchant was a complicated human being, Yuuri had realized during the first month of his captivity, before he was put into the auction that shaped the remaining of his life. That man seemed on a constant internal battle with himself every time he looked at him.

His eyes would twitch, his mouth would voice compliments, but his hands always contradicted his words. With every _'_ _beautiful'_ came a slap against Yuuri’s cheek. With every _'_ _obedient'_ a whip licked his skin. And more often than not, a fist, a wooden stick, a kick, or even hands curled around his throat. He tried everything he could do to deliver any sort of pain.

The man always became furious when they as much locked eyes, and Yuuri spent a long time trying to understand why, despite himself.

After the first night, the first beating, Yuuri saw everything he needed to see. He knew that his capturer was too big and strong for him. Even as a man, he couldn't do anything to protect himself. So he never screamed or struggled, and he never allowed himself to show any emotions that the merchant could feed on.

Yet, he was still beaten twice as much as the other slaves, sometimes thrice, each time becoming worse than the one before it as the auction came nearer, as if knowing that soon someone else would own him was maddening.

And to this very day, Yuuri never understood why.

”Here you are.”

Yuuri lifted his head. The sight of Minako in the corridor next to him, contemplating and worried, was enough to push the memories away for the time being.

He forced a smile. ”Was it good?”

”You’re my own student, of course it was good.” Hers was a genuine one, at least. “Aye, everyone in that hall was completely enthralled by you, myself included, I think, perhaps, it was _too_ good.”

He didn’t know what that meant exactly, but he allowed his heart to warm up by her words. It was as rare as sunlight in Russia to receive praise from that woman.

”Ah, Yuuri,” she put her hands on her hips, “How will I be able to hide you if you shine so brightly?”

He gulped, “You’re exaggerating.”

”Your movements were more feminine than I expected.” Minako quirked an eyebrow, curious. “Did you learn that by yourself?”

”You know I didn’t.” Yuuri curled his hand, allowing his head to hit the wall behind him. “It’s the only thing they want to see me do.”

”And what about it?” Minako almost sounded irritated, “It’s stunning and it suits you, and you seemed happy when you performed.” She shook her head, “All this self-pity won’t take you anywhere, little one. What’s done is done.”

Yuuri sighed, not wanting to admit she was right, but not wanting to deny it either.

She looked around, taking in the surroundings before she started walking past him. ”Follow me.”

He detached from his spot and started walking behind her. ”I tried to imitate the way you moved,” he finally said, rubbing a hand down his naked arm to warm himself. “Or what I could remember from it, at least.”

Minako seemed amused by that. ”I thought so.”

”Sensei, where are we going?”

”Away from the harem,” she told him, “You’re sleeping in the infirmary.”

His brows furrowed. “I am?”

”The Taking is tonight,” Minako explained, “I planned to pull you away an hour ago, but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

”I lost track of time.” He said guiltily, once again being reminded that she had more important things to attend to.

”It’s alright,” she brushed him off, “It’s not necessary to do all this, but I’ll keep you there tonight, just in case. I will leave you in the infirmary, go back to the banquet, and casually inform the Tsar that you fell down the stairs and hurt your ankle. Knowing his Majesty, he won’t ask any further or care too much. ”

He swallowed heavily, the golden choker he was wearing almost hurting his throat. Lying to a Tsar was a crime worth being hanged for, even Yuuri knew that.

”If it will cause you problems,” he said, “I can go… you said it yourself, it’s not necessary. I don’t… I don’t want anything bad to happen to you because of me.”

”Nothing bad will happen to me.” She said with a sort of confidence that Yuuri didn’t understand fully, stopping next to a large iron door to her right.

Before Yuuri could say anything, Minako had already pulled out a key from under her sleeve and opened the door, pinning him with her eye until he had no other choice but to step in.

”Only a handful of people have a key to this room,” her voice echoed from outside, “You’ll be safe. Just lie on one of the beds and enjoy a good night’s sleep. You’ve earned it.”

”Thank you.” He whispered, trying to find his way through the darkness surrounding him without any lanterns or lit candles in sight, almost tripping when he bumped into the closest bed to him.

”It’s too early to say that, Yuuri,” she began swinging the door slowly, the little bit of light starting to disappear. “I’ll come to see you later when I have time.”

He was about to answer when the room turned pitch black and he heard a click, Minako already heading back to the countless tasks she had.

Yuuri sat on the mattress behind him, the creaking and his breaths the only sounds that were audible in that quiet, eerie room. But yet again, the inside of his head filled with a storm of noise and voices, never failing to make an appearance when he was alone.

He wondered how many times Minako would be able to save him before his luck runs out.

He wondered if he would be forced to dance again under the judgmental gazes of noblemen and royalty.

He wondered if all that applause and cheer was a forced act, a bait luring him to believe that he was safe.

He knew he wasn’t.

Minako’s words were warm, but he knew they were biased, for he had heard so many compliments, sweet as honey, from a man like the merchant. Following that nightmare, Yuuri would never allow himself to believe any of it. He knew all kind words were empty, and all that was coming next was beating, abuse, and darkness.

And so he did the only thing that saved him from the pain. He numbed himself, his features fading to resemble the face of the puppet everyone saw him as, his body turning rigid like the porcelain doll they desired, and his heart shutting itself behind a solid cage, away from the pain.

He shut his eyes. The only thing that was still clear in his mind, however, was a majestic and comforting blue, a picture of a handsome face, and a gaze so great Yuuri wanted to paint it.

The Tsar might be his next tormentor, but Yuuri wanted to at least remember his face as a lovely one; before it turned ugly in his eyes when the pain would start again.

 

* * *

 

He wondered why it was this night in particular that the memories of the merchant were so vivid.

He twisted and turned, his forehead wetting with sweat, the same images flashing back ever so often, never leaving him be.

He heard the faintest creak and Yuuri’s eyelids shot open.

”Yuuri?” he heard Minako’s voice behind the light of a candle, before the shadows settled in place and her features lit behind it.

”Is it over?” he instantly asked.

”Yes, the banquet ended hours ago,” she told him, setting the candle on the closest table and making her way to his bed, throwing a wool pouch on his lap, “Take this.”

He sat up straight, trying to examine the contents inside it. “What are those?”

”Poisonous herbs.”

”W- _What?_ ”

”Rub it on your foot, it will make your skin swell.” She said, ignoring his shock and heading to the other table, striking a match to light the lantern in the corner of the room. “A doctor is coming to see you and this is all I could think of.”

The room instantly lit up, all surfaces coming to view, and suddenly the room was revealed to be a lot bigger than he imagined. Yuuri opened the pouch and carefully slid his hand inside, trying not to touch any herbs for too long as he spread them on his right foot, they were dried up and crumbled easy on his skin as he did so.

“How did it go?” Yuuri asked nervously, dreading the answer for reasons he couldn’t comprehend. “Whom did he choose?”

”No one.” That shocked him, to say the least, and the silence was indication for Minako to clarify, “He does that occasionally… when he spends the night with a lover or when he simply doesn't want to – Yuuri,  _why_ haven’t you opened the fireplace? It’s freezing cold in here.”

Yuuri knew that it was impossible for any ruler to use their harem constantly and without fail, even a young one, but Minako’s explanation was incomprehensible. “He… he has _lovers_ , too?”

Minako hummed, heading to the next lantern, “Sometimes, but they last as long as concubines, really.”

Yuuri wanted to ask more but the sudden pain crippled his tongue for a moment. He glanced down to see that the skin of his ankle was already reddening. It was far more irritating than he predicted. “Sensei, why did you have to call a doctor from the first place?”

”I wasn’t going to,” she grumbled, a fire building gradually before her. “But when I told the Tsar, he asked if you were being treated and I couldn’t lie.”

”H-he did?” Yuuri’s eyebrows furrowed, “But you said-”

They were interrupted by a soft knocking on the door, Minako indicated for him to remove the herbs, and so Yuuri did, trying not to leave any evidence of what had happened. Minako crossed the room, taking the pouch from him and hiding it in her belt before she slowly opened the door.

Even with the faint view, Yuuri saw that her face had paled.

“Grand Doctor Cialdini…”

A chuckle came from outside of the door. ”Doctor would suffice, Miss Minako.”

Minako’s entire demeanor changed. ”Why are you here? What happened? Is the Tsar alright?”

”Oh yes, yes. Worry not, he’s healthy as a horse.” The man stepped in, his height dominating Minako’s, but his aura entirely non hostile. He looked away from her, his eyes travelling across the room until they met Yuuri’s, and he smiled. “He sent me to take care of this one.”

”And why would he send _you?_ ” Minako crossed her arms around her chest. “The boy is not _dying_ , he just stepped on some poisonous herbs.”

Yuuri thought that he was mishearing the whole exchange. They were speaking in English and as much as he was fluent in it, Yuuri was having doubts. A grand doctor was usually the king’s personal doctor, a noble that was trained his whole life in medicine and alchemy, and was only called when members of the royal family were in danger.

So what was he doing here? Claiming to have been summoned to examine a _him_.

“Is that so? His majesty mentioned that he fell down and broke his ankle.”

Minako seemed utterly shocked, as if she had never expected the Tsar to remember those details. Her expression, however, immediately changed to annoyance, and the lie that came out from her mouth was almost too convincing. “Dear lord… that man’s forgetfulness is almost legendary.”

The doctor laughed lightheartedly, “It’s alright Miss Minako, I don’t mind. Truth be told, it gets quite uneventful when our Tsar takes care of himself so well, god bless him.”

”I don’t know, Doctor. His memory span worries me sometimes.” Minako responded, and if it were anyone but her, Yuuri would think that she was talking about an emperor with too much informality.

The doctor didn’t seem to notice that as his smile widened, nodding toward Yuuri, “Now shall I?”

”Of course,” Minako waved, “Treat him before, _god forbid_ , he dies from this fatal wound.”

The doctor chuckled as he pulled the chair next to the bed, “You’re being cruel.”

”Yuuri, it seems that I will be leaving you in the most trustable hands in the empire.” She told him, holding the door. “If you need anything, you know where to find me, don’t you?”

”I… I think so.” He said reluctantly.

”Don’t worry, boy,” the doctor ruffled his hair, his tone as sarcastic as the woman who had just left. “You will be able to walk again.”

Yuuri gave him a tight smile. The itch on his ankle was the least of his concerns.

After taking one careful look, the man jokingly asked him if he often enjoyed walking barefoot in the castle’s gardens, and Yuuri had to look away in mild embarrassment.

Doctor Cialdini kept talking and tried to make him comfortable, but none of it worked, because Yuuri’s mind was entirely consumed with questions on why the Tsar did all of this to a mere slave that danced in his banquet, a slave he had only seen twice.

And he would wonder if this all was another bait that was being laid out before him.

Yuuri would later sleep contently and soundly for the first time since he arrived in that palace, the room warm and quiet. Absent were the voices of the other concubines that slept near him every night, a privilege that allowed him to drift away and enjoy at least one night without the harassment of their hateful whispers about him.

And yet again, he would try to understand things that will never be understood, contemplating on why the merchant treated him the way he did, why the nobleman gave him a golden armlet, why the Madams decided to turn him into a sex slave despite everything else he could do, and why the other concubines always despised him.

And he would also wonder about other things; things concerning a man that Yuuri had yet to know.

He would try to understand why the Tsar chose to keep him from the first place, why he forced him to dance, and why he clapped so,  _so_ loudly.

 

* * *

 

Upon waking up, and more often than not, Yuuri would be confused.

Occasionally, it was because he would forget his situation and wonder why his chamber was so dark, until he would remember that that wasn’t the life he had anymore.

But that morning, Yuuri had a hand on his neck and many questions.

He knew he was wearing it. He had tried - in vain - to take it off the night before. Since his hands never figured out how, he had ended up sleeping with the chocker tight around his throat, the discomfort inevitable and his tiredness too overwhelming.

He was certain he had it on during the night, since Yuuri remembered rubbing it occasionally when it became too suffocating.

Yet, there it was, neatly placed on the table next to his bed.

 

* * *

 

”Sensei?” Yuuri suddenly remembered, days later, as he carefully placed a stack of books on the shelves Minako had asked him to organize. “Did you remove my necklace when I was sleeping in the infirmary the other night?”

The last book was set in place, and Yuuri had finished ordering her entire library according to the authors' names.

Minako had joked that she was putting him into labour, and so gave him a simple task later that afternoon, but Yuuri didn't mind it one bit. He had spent the few days after the banquet translating and helping her write letters in various foreign languages, and after there were no more letters on postpone, he helped her with a budget she was struggling with, since he noticed that she took too long with simple calculations, something he found fairly easy.

”Your necklace?” Minako asked in confusion, busy reading a letter. “No, I didn’t come back after I left with you with the doctor.”

He frowned; doctor Cialdini didn’t remove it either, and not many had the key to the infirmary. The more he thought back to it the more worrisome it seemed.

”You might’ve taken it off without knowing.”

“Perhaps.” Yuuri said, rubbing his forehead, not certain of himself anymore. He had a dreamless sleep that night, as far as he knew, but his hand stilled, the movement reminding him, once again, of a gentle touch, a brush of fingers against his hair and skin, phantom and delicate.

He shook his head, reaching the conclusion that it was definitely a dream he had forgotten, and a nursemaid who came by and did him a kind favor.

”Yuuri,” Minako appeared by his side, almost like a ghost. He wasn’t surprised by that anymore; that woman was always moving, never staying put in one place. “I will be quite busy for the rest of the day, but I want you to do some tasks for me.”

”Of course,” he said, already following her to wherever she was now taking him. “Anything for you.”

”I will send you to Cialdini’s quarters,” Minako was saying, quickly locking the door behind them. Yuuri was struck with the cold outside instantly, his body never adjusting to the constant cold, no matter how thick his tunic was. “I asked him if he could make you a pair of spectacles, and he said he would.”

”I – What?”

”You squint quite a lot,” she turned to him, “You can’t see well, can you?”

”You’re right...” Yuuri answered, almost wonderstruck by her deduction. He didn’t know how eyeglasses were made or who made them, but Yuuri had seen people wearing them so rarely that he never considered seeking to have a pair made for himself. “But isn’t it too much to ask the grand doctor himself?”

”Yuuri, that man has absolutely nothing to do most of the time. He was almost _too_ delighted by the request. No one wants to wear spectacles in this castle so he never gets to make them.”

Yuuri was confused. ”But why?”

”They look very unflattering so people never bother,” she explained, smirking, “Which is good for you, Yuuri. You’re beautiful, and you need to hide that.”

Minako was showing him the way, but Yuuri didn’t find it in him to pay attention. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t beautiful, not even close to, and that it was only his godforsaken eyes that got him there in the first place. He wanted to shout it at her, yet he held his tongue.

”And once you finish with your session-”

He snapped his head toward her, “Sorry, what session?”

”With a handler,” Minako said, her voice suddenly lowering, “You know you have to see one regularly, Yuuri. If you don’t, the other concubines will get even more suspicious.”

Yuuri stared at her silently for a long time before he realized that she was referring to a Madam.

He knew that it would come eventually, and that he had to relearn every lesson, verbal and physical, all over again, but he thought that he might as well try to escape it, nonetheless. “I know everything that needs to be known about seduction, erotic arts, sexual intercourse, and everything in between. Going there would only be a waste of time for them, sensei.”

Minako sighed, not seeming very proud to hear that, but Yuuri tried not to succumb to the humiliation he just caused to himself. “I see.”

He looked away from her. “Is there any way I can-”

”Well,” she put a hand on her chin, “You just have to show them that you don’t need any training.”

”I tried before. I _told_  them that countless times,” he bit his bottom lip, “But they never believe it.”

”Why, of course they won’t.” Minako told him, “I said show them, Yuuri, not tell them.”

His entire face went red. “Show them… how?”

She blinked, as if she did not expect that question from him. “What do you mean, how? You go and seduce the one who trains you. That’s what they want to see.”

His eyes widened, “S-s-seduce? The Madam? Seduce _her?_ ”

”The handler, yes.” She frowned, “Yuuri, you’re a concubine… you _have_ seduced people before, haven’t you?”

He avoided eye contact, beginning to feel ashamed about something he never thought he’d be ashamed of. ”I – uhm – I was taught to.”

”Then it wouldn’t be that hard, considering the way you danced.” She raised an eyebrow, “Think of it as a private performance, and to make it easier, I’ll send you to a handler called Sara, she’s half in love with you already.”

Yuuri might’ve as well heard that the Tsar had burst into the castle while riding a dragon. “W- _why?_ ”

Minako didn’t see his confusion as she continued walking, handing instructions and receiving reports from the majority of the servants who passed them by. Yuuri had seen her do that so often that he didn’t fully notice it as much as before.

She turned to him after the group of servants were far away, “Because it would be easier for you to convince her that-”

”No.” Yuuri interrupted her, “I mean, _why_ would she be half in love with _me_?”

Minako shook her head, “Yuuri, you might be one of the most intelligent people in this castle, but your stupidity shocks me sometimes.”

”But sensei,” he asked nervously, “How would people outside of the harem even know about me?”

”Ah, well, your name goes around quite a lot.” She answered casually, as if it wasn’t one of his worst fears. “And you’re not easy to unsee, not after the banquet, which is _why_ you’re getting those eyeglasses, little one. Hopefully with them people will overlook you and pass you by as just another servant running errands for me.”

Yuuri honestly never thought that he’d go that far, but the more he listened to Minako’s reasoning the more certain he was that she was doing everything in her power to save his pride, and once again he was thankful for her; she made everything seem less hopeless.

Without him realizing, Yuuri saw that they had made it all the way to the reception hall’s gallery. Nearly two weeks ago, he was standing on the ground below, scared witless, and now, he was standing above, on the other side, still scared, by all means, but his wits collected firmly.

The view opened to the entire hall as Yuuri reached closer to the rail, Minako standing next to him, her good eye fixed purposefully on the herd of numerous servants running back and forth below them, no doubt searching for a particular face.

Yuuri watched as a man walked hurriedly to the gate, a brass in hand that he quickly pressed the end of its tube into his mouth, a loud horn echoing throughout the hall and the gallery when he blew on it.

Yuuri recognized that horn, and almost instantly, all of the people below who were rushing and moving in all directions collectively stopped on their heels, spreading like the split sea and standing in two messy lines, the space between them vast.

Yuuri pressed his lips together, trying to imitate the way Minako stood, her hands crossed together respectfully and back straight, although he tried his hardest to hide himself behind the pillar next to him, his constant fear only worsening.

” _Attention! His majesty has returned._ ” The man with the brass announced.

The doors of the gate opened, and many people entered all at once, almost too many to count, walking in the front were two armored guards, and behind them, as Yuuri knew and feared, a silver haired figure appeared, the atmosphere surrounding him alone forcing the entire medium into silence and absolute awe.

He was tall, Yuuri realized, standing higher than the majority of the large attendance of men and women, his style contrasting with everyone around him with the rich and striking fabric he wore. He was clad in a long, black undercoat with close-fitting sleeves that showed his masculine limbs, and an armless coat that broadened his shoulders with its hard material. The garment screamed luxury, with intricate golden patterns decorating all of its visible parts. And to make him look even more intimating, a thick black cape was draped on one of his shoulders, its collar made of expensive-looking fur.

His hair barely reached his cheek, the short strands cascading on one side of his face. He wasn’t wearing a crown, so Yuuri noticed how straight and silky it looked. The front of his hair fell to hide his eyes from display, as his head was titled to the side, and for that Yuuri was thankful.

Anyone with good eyes could see the amount of power radiating off of him, even if the man himself was smiling softly, not emitting it on purpose. The crowd that followed him only enhanced that even more. It was hard to see so many people trailing behind someone and not feel threatened by their presence.

A joyful giggle forced Yuuri’s eyes to detach from the Tsar, landing on the lady that had an arm locked with his.

She was absolutely beautiful, even if her face was blurry from his spot. She had a gorgeous pair of navy blue eyes and hair so scarlet it was shining, long and straight and reaching the small of her back. On top of that, she was dressed in a dark blue dress that highlighted her large irises even further.

She was young, Yuuri saw, and her smile was laced with fondness and amusement.

He didn’t know who that lady was. He was still unfamiliar with the members of the court. Though, watching them - a presentation of the handsomest of couples - together, Yuuri guessed that she might be the lover that the Tsar spent the night with at the banquet.

Although her presence should’ve been comforting, given Yuuri’s current circumstances, the mere sight of the redhead sent a wave of dismay into his being, a dark, unwelcome feeling of dread that itched his skin.

He didn't understand where it was coming from, or _why_.

She was amidst an animated conversation with the Tsar, when she unknowingly hit the person next to her with her elbow.

The poor girl, a servant slave who had a tray in her hand, shook for a second and it was enough for the bowl of soup to spill on the lady’s sleeve.

The servant pulled away, her expression filled with horror when the lady stopped walking and examined her ruined sleeve.

”My apologies, Duchess!” the servant almost shouted in fright, holding the tray aside like it was poison. “I – I didn’t _see_. I am so sorry!”

It was in that instant that the entire temperature of the hall dropped. He didn’t know what had caused it, but when the Tsar turned toward her, everyone around him, including Yuuri, was able to see the almost frightening shift of his mood.

He smiled, one of the coldest, most demeaning and dark expressions that anyone could make, “You call her _Tsarevna,_ not duchess.” The Tsar said, his tone wielding the chill of ice itself. _“Tsarevna_ Mila, _Tsarevich_ Georgi, _Tsesarevich_ Yurio; they are your princess and princes,” the girl began shaking visibly from utter fear, even a drop of a needle could’ve been heard then. “Do you understand that, slave?”

Yuuri, from above the gallery, had started to reflect the girl’s reaction to his words. He was shivering, and not from the cold, but because it was the first time he heard the Tsar’s voice, and it was the first time – inevitably one in many to come – that he had seen his cruelty, verbal, with a manner degrading and emotionless, the word _‘slave’_ coming out of his mouth like a spit.

”Victor,” the red haired lady said, unaffected and annoyed as she put a hand on his arm. “Enough with your dramatics. Shall we go inside?”

In the blink of an eye, the Tsar’s expression changed. When he turned toward her, his smile charming, Yuuri felt a harsh thud in his chest. His blue, breathtakingly beautiful eyes finally appearing in sight. “Of course, _your Highness,_ lead the wa-”

The Tsar stilled, shutting his mouth all of a sudden, his eyebrows closing in together, as if he sensed something unnerving nearby. A moment later, his head slowly started turning upward, his eyes wide and seeking.

It took Yuuri less than a second to realize what he was doing, and before he knew it, his body had whipped to the side before the man’s gaze found him, his back plastering against the pillar, hiding himself on sheer instinct and as fast as he physically could, his heart thundering against his ribcage

His staring was so intense that the Tsar felt it, all the way from the floor down, but _of course_ he did. Yuuri was consumed with both familiar and foreign emotions, all too powerful to not notice. He had just seen how his new owner treated his slaves for merely using the wrong honorifics. God knew what he would do when he found out about Yuuri’s schemes.

And as much as he didn’t want to think about it, the horrific burns on Minako’s body were becoming less mysterious the more he considered it.

His breathing was loud and unstable, he knew. But when he looked at the side, Minako was relaxed and smiling, her stare pinned on one spot. Undoubtedly, the Tsar’s eyes had found hers instead of Yuuri’s. She bowed her head gracefully, a short nod of acknowledgment toward the man he was so scared of.

Minutes later and after hearing so many footsteps disappearing from the hall, Minako sighed in sympathy. “It’s a sensitive topic for his Majesty.”

Yuuri frowned, not understanding what she was saying.

”You’re a resident of this castle,” she turned but did not look directly at him. “So you must know about this.”

What Yuuri heard next was perhaps a sad story, but not a tragic one. It was an in depth explanation of the way the Tsar acted toward that slave, a story that would benefit Yuuri in the future when he learned it.

The Tsar’s mother passed away the day she gave birth to him. For the remaining of his childhood, the newly named Tsasarevich and the heir of the empire merely saw his father, the Grand Duke of Russia, on occasion, sometimes years apart with every meeting. By the time he passed infancy and was able to walk and talk, his father permanently left him in his aunt’s care.

The Grand Duchess Lilia, her noble husband Yakov, and their three children were the only family the boy had, growing up. And as he later claimed, they were all he _will_ ever have. It was a highly controversial subject, especially after changing their titles soon after being crowned, and announcing his cousins as princess and princes.

More problems arose when he announced his youngest cousin, Lord Yurio, as his heir. It meant that if the Tsar never had a child - something that he never seemed too interested in - the throne would pass down from House Nikiforov and to House Feltsman, which was something that the entire empire was against, considering that they were ruled by the Nikiforovs for centuries.

The Tsar, however, never paid too much attention to what his people wanted regarding the monarch. He made sure, with everything he had, that the cousins he considered to be his own siblings were treated as any other princes and princesses. Victor Nikiforov himself wasn’t the son of the Tsar before him, so he didn’t find anything worrisome with that fact that the throne wouldn't pass down to his own children. And not once did he find anything flawed with the way he planned the succession.

Day by day, the importance of his female concubines was becoming higher the older he became and more offers of marriage he refused. Nonetheless, The Tsar did not care about fatherhood. And stubbornly, he had full faith in Yurio Feltsman, the Tsesarevich he chose to rule after him.

”No one belittles his cousins, Yuuri.” Minako finished. “Don't you ever forget that and dare make the same mistake.”

Needless to say, after the incident, that girl was never seen again inside the castle walls.


	4. Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor: **Tsar/Emperor** \-- _His Majesty/His Well Born_
> 
> Yurio: **Tsesarevich/Prince Heir** \-- _His Highness_
> 
> Mila: **Tsarevna/Princess** \-- _Her Highness_
> 
> Georgi: **Tsarevich/Prince** \-- _His Highness_
> 
> Lilia: **Grand Duchess** \-- _Her Grace_
> 
> Yakov: **Grand Duke** \-- _His Grace_

  _Sick of all these people talking_

  _Sick of all this noise_

_-_

_Oh, all these minutes passing_

_Sick of feeling used_

_-_

_And now my neck is open wide_

_Begging for a fist around it_

_Already choking on my pride_

_So there's no use crying about it  
  
_

**Halsey -[Castle](https://youtu.be/cFrwi9Mje7E)**

* * *

 

The merchant was a living paradox, Yuuri remembered, a particular bad memory streaming back in into his head when he needed it the least.

It was after one of the worse beatings that Yuuri had found himself on the floor, his arms weak, but his will adamant on keeping his body upright. Braced on his hands and knees, he had coughed loudly, and blood started to pool on the floor under him, dripping from his mouth, its scarlet color becoming a familiar sight.

He didn’t fall or give in to the pain; his pride didn’t let him, so Yuuri did the only thing that he could do, he spat on his own reflection through the liquid, allowing more amounts of blood to join the others.

 _’You shouldn’t let your beautiful face become filthy like this,’_ the merchant had said, and the fact that he sounded utterly serious, not a trace of sarcasm accompanying his words, astounded Yuuri completely. _‘Here,’_

The merchant had thrown a clean cloth at him, and Yuuri, completely speechless to that man’s madness, only stared at it, its pure whiteness the opposite of the scarlet filth next to it.

It wouldn’t clean him, Yuuri had thought desperately, it wouldn’t erase his shame, and it wouldn’t save him. Nothing did and nothing ever would.

 

* * *

 

A private performance, that’s all it was.

There was no music, no orchestra, no clapping, and no praise. But it didn’t matter; Yuuri never needed them anyway.

His index finger trailed her skin softly, caressing her cheek and moving down to her bottom lip, stopping there and pressing ever so deftly. In a slow movement, he let it continue down to her jaw, the girl’s shivers obvious and empowering the longer he went.

The room was silent, but her breaths were _so_ loud. So Yuuri persisted, bringing his other hand to rub on her bare arm, up, and up, and up, leaving shallow touches on her bare shoulder, her collarbone, the clothed front of her breast, until she swallowed audibly.

He locked his eyes with hers, and their color only seemed more vibrant from up close, violet and saturated, her pupils dilating the longer he kept looking unashamedly.

”Tell me,” he used the voice, the voice that was tuned specifically for these occasions. It was a voice that had nothing in common with his soft, innocent one, but the counterpart of it that he was trained to use, gentle and silky, but deep and masculine, “What do you want to see?”

The affect it caused was immediate.

Her cheeks turned bright pink, her eyes widening as she heard him speak each syllable. His Italian was accented, but Yuuri knew he spoke it perfectly. “I – I don’t – You can – err, show me how-”

His other fingers joined the one resting on her jaw, cupping it with his palm, “Oh, _Sara_ ,” he said, pronouncing her name as suggestively as he could, “Pretty Sara, what do you want me to show you?” His hand moved down and covered the side of her neck, “Do you want to see my nakedness? Do you want to see what I can do with my fingers?” he pulled her head to the side, bringing his mouth directly against her ear and whispering with heat, “I can have four of them inside me, do you want to see that?” he wanted to _vomit_ with every foul word he said, the foreign language only making it sound more revolting. But he resisted the urge as hard as he could, “Do you want to see what I can do with my mouth?” he bit on her earlobe softly, and the quiet gasp he earned from her was disgusting, “Or, _Sara_ , do you want to see how I can pleasure you? Ah, you make me want to do very sinful things…” he kept his tone playful, despite how he was starting to hate himself so passionately. “Our Tsar is no woman, but I’ll have you know that I was trained for Queens as well.”

”K-Kissing,” she squeaked. “At the very least… I’ll have to see if y-you can kiss.”

”Oh, Sara,” he chuckled mockingly, its fakeness obvious but she did not notice it. His dominance was blinding her. “You think _you_ have to teach me?”

For a few moments, Sara did not blink, did not even breathe, her face turning cherry red with each passing second. Yuuri held the back of her neck, almost frowning in dismay before he reminded himself to keep his face fixed on one expression, sensual.

Her lips were wet, opened, and eager. It wasn’t the first mouth he was forced to kiss, not even close to his tenth. Or Twentieth. 

Yuuri took control, remembering everything he was taught, and let his tongue slide across her parted lips. Licking the roof of her mouth, where he learned it was the most sensitive. He pressed their lips together and sucked into hers, firmly and with a tad bit of harshness.

She moaned, and Yuuri winced agonizingly, hoping this could really end, once and for all, if he did all this.

He pulled away when he couldn’t handle it anymore; but Yuuri made sure it was longer than it usually took. He watched her breathless, flushing form, and reminded himself of the next step of the plan he spent the past few days perfecting.

Yuuri tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowing, and his mouth forming the most provocative smirk he could muster. “Can I leave now, _Sara?”_

 

* * *

 

Everyone stared, everywhere, whenever.

His new eyeglasses helped make his daily life much easier, for he had forgotten a point in time of all of his twenty years of age when the world was so clear and filled with breathtaking details.

Cialdini and his apprentice – a lovely boy whom Yuuri found very agreeable and easy to talk to – had made the spectacles with perfection. And he had spent the first three days wearing them merely admiring the brilliant architecture of the castle that he hadn’t been able to see before.

The eyewear might’ve worked with people outside the harem, as no one had bothered to look at him twice since then. But _inside_ , however, they proved useless and might’ve only drawn more attention toward him unwantedly.

His plan had worked, to say the least. And Yuuri no longer needed to attend any more humiliating sessions with any Madams. While he was grateful for that; finally being able to sleep knowing that no one would defile him or force him to defile himself for practice, he realized that he had overlooked the downside of that risk he took.

Words travelled faster wind, he observed, as he entered his third week of his stay in Russia. The encounter with Sara had only become a fuel to the whispers and stares. And Yuuri’s separation from the rest of the harem became more apparent.

Noticeably, there was a newly formed fear from the other concubines, a fear that was gradually building by the day. Albeit, their hatred had grown even more than before, as they stressed on avoiding him like a disease and began to see him as an even bigger threat.

But _’Witch’_ , surely, was a ridiculous accusation.

Upon hearing the term so many times, always accompanied with a series of untrue rumors, ridicule, hatred and profanity, and often said when glaring sideway at him, Yuuri had realized that they were now referring to him with that.

’ _Whore_ ’ reached his ears quite often, and it was absolutely laughable.

They seemed to have forgotten that they were all in a harem, a fancy title to a _whorehouse_. And they loved to overlook the fact that he, out of all of them, seemed like the only one who was not dreaming of opening his legs for the Tsar.

But somehow, someway, they deemed it fitting more than once to describe him.

It was humiliating, because it had happened to him before; where that specific word accompanied his presence. Long ago, he was required to perform in front of a crowd for the first time. A performance he had completely forgotten, in a faraway nation he couldn’t remember. He had danced his night and memories away, and the morning he woke up, everyone around him seemed to have forgotten his name and replaced it with _‘whore’_.

He didn’t understand it; all he did was show that woman what he was taught, though he treated her a little disrespectfully while doing so. Yuuri never did something in that session that he wasn’t forced to do in any other.

His disrespect was never mentioned, however. It was only an overstated description of what he did. Yuuri didn’t doubt Sara; the girl was never able to look at him in the eye without blushing a shy red since that day. But Yuuri knew that the story had reached the wrong ear, and was altered absurdly by each mouth that passed it on.

He was now, according to them, an absolute evil creature that seduced all of his owners and teachers. A man who laid with so many men and women it was uncountable. And he was exiled more than once from many kingdoms because of his wretched acts.

Which was _obscene_ ; if he wasn’t an unscathed virgin, he wouldn’t have been able to step a foot inside of the imperial harem from the first place.

He didn't know which one he preferred; _'witch'_ was less degrading, whereas _'whore'_ was closer to the truth.

”Yuuri, I told you to seduce that woman, not drive her crazy.” Minako couldn’t decide whether to be shocked, scared, or both when Sara had reported it to her. “And dear lord, how could you even _say_ these things? You could be hanged for treason after suggesting that you pleasure her, in _any_ way.” She sighed, “You should be thankful that she didn’t share these particular details. Everything else, it seems, have been the talk of the castle.”

”I was desperate.” He adjusted his round eyeglasses anxiously, never predicting that doing something the exact way he was taught to would bring him so many problems.

They all talked about how he did it so easily, how he seduced a handler without even trying too hard. But none of them knew that after he came out of that room, Yuuri had spent half an hour vomiting in the nearest washroom. The contents of his stomach had emptied, but his disgust remained fixed in his core.

”Why don’t you try to warm your way into them?” Minako suggested. Her burns looked even more horrific now that Yuuri could see them clearly, stretching and loosening with each movement of her face. “I’ve known you for so long. Your shyness and guarded attitude might not be particularly off-putting for me, but you _know_ they see it as arrogance and distaste.”

Yuuri didn’t understand why it was causing all that hatred. Even if her conclusion was true, the concubine’s treatment toward him still seemed more personal than that.

”And correct me if I’m wrong,” Minako continued, “You are being purposely stingy when they approach you.”

Yuuri shook his head, ”I’m only trying to defend myself. I don’t know what else I could do.”

The first time he was pushed, Yuuri thought it was accidental. The time his food tray fell on the floor, Yuuri thought it wasn’t meant to happen. But the more he felt aggressive hands on him, the more his clothes were ripped, and the more he heard curses spat his way, Yuuri began to understand what his life was turning into.

Thus he stayed away, only staring at them with incredulousness after every act. It had worked, miraculously; something about his strange eyes scared them, and it was all he had.

The eyes that were a constant curse, were starting to help him.

There was a newly formed fear from the other concubines, _indeed_ , a fear that was gradually building by the day, but he didn’t see it as a bad thing. Not at all.

Yuuri wanted that fear to grow even _more_ if it meant some peace and quiet.

He glanced at the door of the quarters, thinking of his cold bed and decent sleep to wash away his tiredness. His day had been hectic with the amounts of errands he ran alongside his daily dancing practices. Minako often expressed how helpful he was staring to become, and Yuuri took slight satisfaction in that. He was exhausted, naturally, and wanted to rest. But he couldn’t, not yet, not this night.

Not when it was the time the Tsar visited the harem again to choose his next concubine.

”When will it be over?” he wondered aloud.

”I wouldn’t know.” Minako grumbled, sipping her tea. “I haven’t a clue how long their rituals take.” She continued, explaining why, “I don’t like to associate myself with the harem so often. I only make sure everything runs smoothly every now and then.”

”You say that quite a lot.” Yuuri noted.

”This place hasn’t had a Tsarina – a Queen – in almost a decade,” she began, seeming bored with the topic. “The Tsar runs this empire, and I run his castle for him as best as I can. But his harem was something I’ve always despised and tried to stay away from.”

”We didn’t have harems back in Japan,” Yuuri added, “So maybe that’s why we’re so repulsed by the mere idea of it.”

She puffed a breath. “This was the only good side about that place.”

Yuuri stayed silent. He didn’t know, he really didn’t. Most of the time, his former home seemed like a heaven compared to where he was now. But Minako’s hatred seemed everlasting, even after so many years.

She had an important role, he had now realized, for his teacher seldom shared information about her life. Yuuri always saw her importance, but it was astonishing, now that he confirmed that she was actually the head of the emperor’s household.

”Do you know how it happens?” he asked, hoping she would talk more about the details he was always stressful about. “How he… _chooses_ them?”

Minako raised both of her eyebrows, once again surprised by his lack of knowledge. “Well,” she hummed in thought, “The concubines present – as in, they all stand in the harem’s entrance, wearing their finest dresses and jewels, anything to catch the Tsar’s eye. Then he stands in front of the one he wants, asks what his or her name is, and after they tell him, he says their name aloud, and gives them his handkerchief. That’s how they know they’re chosen. His Majesty then leaves, and the concubine is sent with a group of handmaidens that would get them ready for the night.”

Yuuri frowned, the description was obnoxious and somehow annoying, but the picture made him incredulous to their current actions. ”Won’t that take minutes? I’ve been sitting with you for _hours_.”

”I know… I know…” she rubbed the burned side of her face, “I can’t help but be protective of you, so please stay here for a while longer. They will come to report it to me eventually.”

”Of course,” he said, “But I thought you will hide me somewhere again or plan an excuse.”

”It’s not necessary anymore. Quite in fact, every attempt of me trying to make you less noticeable had backfired.” She said, not clarifying any further.

"It isn't your fault," he said, "I know you're doing everything you can. And I'm grateful for that, I really am."

“Yuuri," she set her cup down, "In the future, I will just let you avoid it by yourself. You don’t need to hide or pretend anymore. From now and on, you only have to do one thing,” the look she directed at him was pinning. “Don’t be present in the harem during the Taking. You don’t have to hide, just be anywhere but there. Do you understand?”

”Yes, but what if-”

”Nothing will happen to you as long as I run this castle and you don’t attend.” She said, not bothering to hear what he was going to say, “I’ll take full responsibly if that didn’t work.”

He didn’t know what she was implying, but Yuuri saw how her expression changed drastically, turning completely solemn. It was quite noticeable that Minako was troubled the last couple of days, and he wished it wasn’t because of him, but nonetheless, at that moment in particular, she looked _mournful_.

“Sensei, are you alright?”

Minako sighed, hiding her eye with the palm of her hand. “It’s hard, Yuuri, to wound someone you care for.”

He scowled. That was not true; she was doing everything _but_ wounding him. Yuuri had never felt safer for the entirety of his enslavement, and all thanks to her. “Don’t say that, sensei. I will be alright.”

She didn’t answer him, didn’t even seem to notice what he was saying. And Yuuri was confused.

It was as if she wasn’t even talking about Yuuri in the first place.

A knock came from the door, and Minako sighed in relief.

She stood up, straightened her skirt, and made her way to open it.

He heard a bit of noise and saw that she had kept the door half opened so no one could see him. After a few minutes and a couple of oddly sounding whispers and exclamations, Minako came back, slamming the door so hard after her that Yuuri was startled.

”You can go back now.” She said, sounding frustrated.

Yuuri clinched his hands on his lap, his form shrinking within itself, “Whom did he pick?”

God help him, Yuuri didn’t know why he asked. He really didn’t.

But he _wanted_ to know who it was, and badly.

”No one.”

He blinked, once, twice, and thrice. Yuuri was sure he heard her wrong; it might’ve been a nostalgic illusion of the first time they had this exact exchange.

“W-what?”

“Be careful tonight when you go back.” Minako went on, not repeating herself. “The concubines are very… dispirited. And they might take out their anger on you.”

”Why?” Yuuri felt nervous. They already enjoyed taking all of their frustrations out on him regularly. Minako pointing it out was worrisome. “What happened? Doesn’t he do that often?”

The concubines didn’t seem that irritated the last time it happened. Disappointed and unhappy they were, but _not_ irritated and angry.

”When Victor isn’t willing to, he doesn’t attend the Taking or go to the harem from the first place.” She slumped down on her chair, and Yuuri’s eyes widened upon hearing the Tsar’s first name coming out of her mouth so casually. “This time, however,” she sighed, “They said he went in there, looked at each one of the concubines' faces and then... _left._  This has never happened before.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, what to even _feel_ about that. His mind was suddenly dipped into a mixture of relief and apprehension, and he didn’t have a clue on which one of these two emotions had more density.

Furthermore, he didn’t even _understand_ what that oddity meant.

But he saw it, a shadow of a dark, wicked cloud that would hang above his head soon and remain there for a long time, following him wherever he went.

 

* * *

 

The imperial family was a pack of very strange creatures; Yuuri had learned that for a fact.

The unexplainable series of events had all started one day after the second Taking.

That morning, Yuuri was summoned unexpectedly to the west wing. It was a part of the castle he had never seen before, and as far as he knew, was forbidden to most residents.

As he was walked by with _royal_ guards, nonetheless, Yuuri’s heart was in his throat, beating wildly and abruptly, leaving him a second away from fainting right then and there.

The walk was an agony, and the fact that Yuuri was completely unfamiliar with the map of the castle, made everything worse. He knew nothing about where they were taking him, and none of them spoke or elaborated any further.

They stopped in front of a massive door, protected by another pair of guards, and after a few exchanges, the door was pushed open and Yuuri more or less was pushed inside.

He straightened himself, gulping as he raised his head slowly in fear.

Only to find that he didn’t need to, because the person who had summoned him was a young boy, twelve to thirteen years of age, and almost two feet shorter than him.

 _”You.”_ The golden haired boy had hissed maliciously, as if Yuuri had done something terrible to him, leaving the man scared to death by his tone. “You damn _bastard._  I’m so sick and tired of hearing about you.”

Yuuri’s entire body was trembling at the harsh, foul language of his words. He moved his eyes in all directions to avoid these striking green irises, narrowed into feline slits and looking more terrifying than the majority of the adult men he knew.

He almost tripped on his own feet when he found a familiar face in the room, sitting on a table in the living area and drinking tea as if nothing was happening that was of interest to him.

It was him. The young guard that Yuuri had seen the first day he entered this castle, the guard that had been so undeniably protective of Minako. Though, seeing him now in that position, without the weight of his armor, he realized that the young man must’ve not been a guard from the first place. He was dressed in a fine garment of a squire’s, similar to the way Cialdini’s apprentice was dressed.

”Don’t look at the knight for rescue,” the boy snarled, confirming the identity of the young man behind them, who raised his head ever so slightly at the mention of him. “He won’t be able protect you from a damn _Tsesarevich_ , will he?”

Yuuri took a couple of steps backwards, the mere idea of being in the presence of the boy – the prince and the heir presumptive of Russia – made him feel even more scared than he already was.

”Y-your… your Highness,” Yuuri stuttered, hoping he used the right honorific. He knew that mistaking that alone could exile him from this castle. “Have I done something that offended you? If so, I apologize.”

”Your whole existence offends me.” Prince Yurio spat, “And _what_ are your eyes?! Why do they look like that? They’re _so_ narrow...” Yuuri winced visibly at the familiar description, “Yet they are so damn huge-“

”They are the eyes of the Forbidden Kingdom, your Highness,” the knight supplied, shocking Yuuri by the softness of his voice. “All of its people look like that, but I do admit, his are quite unique on their own.”

”The Forbidden Kingdom – you mean Japan? The same place Miss Minako is from?” the knight nodded, which made him turn back to Yuuri, squinting hatefully. “She is _far_ more good-looking than you.” He said, and Yuuri didn’t detect any mockery toward her or dishonesty, only offense toward him. “Your Russian accent makes my ears bleed and _look_ at you, with those stupid spectacles. You look like the pig we ate for dinner last night,” he smirked, “Don’t you think so, Otabek?”

”I can see the similarity, indeed.” Otabek answered, sending Yuuri an apologetic look.

”Your Highness,” Yuuri put his hands together, bowing. “I sincerely apologize for my ugliness.” He said, meaning it. He didn’t understand, it wasn’t like Yuuri had ever seen him before or the Prince did, either. “I will make sure to stay out of your sight, if that’s what you wish.”

”Shut your mouth, pig!” the Prince seemed almost _insulted_ , by what Yuuri apologized for, or by the suggestion, or even both. “This is _not_ why I summoned you. For goodness sake, at least you're not much uglier than the other whores in this castle.”

Talking with the Prince was one confusion after another, Yuuri concluded. His youth was being highlighted so clearly by his childish use of authority, his louder than necessary tone of voice, and unreasonable anger. And furthermore, Yuuri couldn’t believe that he just called all the concubines of the imperial harem, undoubtedly the most beautiful women and men of the nation, _uglier_ than _him_.

But Yuuri composed himself, somehow, striking a bright and an amiable smile, “How may I serve you then, your Highness?”

Prince Yurio looked away from him, as if on reflex.

The boy’s hands clinched into fists, his teeth grinded together, and the longer Yuuri waited the more worried he became.

Childish he was, but Yuuri's life and wellbeing was a plaything to the Prince all the same.

Said Prince’s face was slightly red when he turned, glaring at Yuuri openly with pursed lips.

”I want you to teach me how to dance. Just like you.”

 

* * *

 

Another Taking took place, another night where Yuuri escaped the harem as if it was on fire and kept himself busy with errands he was almost begging to find.

The Tsar had appeared again, Yuuri heard, he had looked at every single one of his concubines with disappointment. And he had left without saying anyone’s name. Without giving anyone his handkerchief.

That would repeat, fortnight after fortnight, until Yuuri would wake up each morning after it with fresh bruises.

 

* * *

 

The strangeness continued over the following weeks, and if someone had ever told him, long ago, that Yuuri would find himself sneaking away from the harem at the break of dawn, to meet up secretly with a Tsesarevich every single day for dance lessons, he would’ve considered the mere thought hysterical.

But it wasn’t hysterical, not as the time proved him wrong. It had become a reality Yuuri was forced to face.

He knew he was swimming in dangerous waters. He knew that everything he had done to isolate himself from mishaps could crumble down at any second, and lay broken under his feet, but Yuuri didn’t have any options laid before him.

Everything was happening against his will and the more he looked at Otabek’s shiny sword – an obvious threat to his life – the more he believed he was a captive, rather than a teacher.

If anyone witnessed what he was doing, the Tsar would hang him. If he refused even a single one of the Prince’s demands, Yurio would hang him himself. And if he decided to tell on the blackmail and the forced arrangement to any other soul, Otabek would chop his head off with one swift movement of his sword, and toss his body into a river.

Yuuri had been piling up such heavy weight of danger, increasing by every situation he found himself in, over his head and shoulders with not as much as an inkling of balance. And with the slightest wrong movement, the pile would crumble and crush him alive.

If it was any consolation to his worsened anxiety and despair, the Prince was a better student than he had ever imagined. The boy found his ground and learned everything Yuuri had taught him thus far with incredible ease. When he was informed that Yurio wanted to particularly learn _ballet_ of all dances, Yuuri was certain that they wouldn't achieve anything, not unless Yurio dedicated the next years of his life to _merely_ learn the basic postures and enhance his flexibility.

Yuuri had tried his hardest to convince the Prince to pursue any other style. He knew he had enough skill to teach Yurio _any_ form of dance he wished to learn, dozens more, even. But the boy was unyielding, reacting violently with each suggesting and insisting on ballet, and nothing else but ballet.

To be honest with himself, when Yuuri took his time to focus on Yurio’s progress – when the boy wasn’t yelling in his ears and insulting every single thing about his being, that is – he found himself beginning to admire him and his unbelievable talent.

 _’My mother taught me first.’_ He explained his bizarre capability one time, _‘If she wasn’t born a princess, she would’ve been the best dancer in the world, I swear it. But a princess cannot be a dancer, they told her.’_ He then glared at Yuuri, as if he was the one that took that away. _’And a prince cannot be a dancer, they told **me**.’_

Since hearing those words, Yuuri’s devotion and respect bloomed, and he started to make sure he delivered what Yurio exactly wanted from him, the danger be damned.

At the beginning, Yurio wanted to learn basic things, everything that could help him reach Yuuri’s level and fashion of performance.

The postures. The bends. The spins. The twirls. Yuuri introduced them to him as if it was a religion he converted to, a religion he devoted his life to and loved with all of his heart.

And Yurio didn’t hesitate to dedicate his entire body to adopt them into his form.

As the days went by, as the two became familiar with each other, and as Otabek stopped standing next to the door and giving him threatening looks, Yurio became more adventurous.

He asked for more, inquired about certain moves he had seen Yuuri perform, _other_ people perform, and as any young individual, loved to learn the odder pieces.

One inquiry, however, was out of the ordinary.

”I can balance on one foot in my _sleep_ now, no matter the position of my other limbs,” Yurio grinned, obviously proud of his remarkable progress over only two months, but Yuuri didn’t understand what he was implying, for Yurio never boasted. “How long do you think it will take until I can balance myself on _one_ hand?!”

The boy seemed so excited it was almost endearing, but Yuuri’s curiosity emerged at the sudden question.

"But, your Highness,” he raised an eyebrow, “You don’t need that to dance, that’s for a different kind of performance.”

Moreover, how come the Prince was so _confident_ that Yuuri was able to do that? It was an acrobat move that had nothing to do with what he portrayed himself as.

”Of course I can,” Yurio responded immediately, determined. “If you can do it, I can as well, no? Don’t underestimate me.”

”How do you _know_ that?”

”I… I’ve heard things.” A slight redness painted Yurio’s cheeks. He looked away, groaning in annoyance. “Just _show_ me, would you?!”

Nothing made any sense, something which often happened whenever Prince Yurio was involved. For one, none of the residents of the castle had seen him dance since the banquet, and back then, he didn't display any hint of that particular skill.

Even Minako herself didn't know that he could do such a thing. If his memory didn't fail him, she was always strict against that kind of divergence when it came to her lessons, telling him that she was training him for a world class stage, not a circus.

So how on earth did the Tsesarevich know?

But the more Yurio stared at him with hopeful eyes - a look he tried to conceal but failed at it - the more Yuuri wanted to forget about the strangeness of the situation.

He gave up eventually, finding that he couldn’t refuse the Prince even with no hostility or threats involved.

He drew back a few steps, stopping on his tiptoes when he reached the far end of the room. Yuuri then charged forward with enough speed to supply a jump, concentrating all of his weight in his arms and flipping himself upside down in the air, both hands planting themselves on the floor.

He arched his back, pointing his feet toward the ceiling and easily finding his balance once he was settled. And finally, he lifted his right hand into the air by his side, now fully supported only by one arm.

He lifted his head to see Yurio as red as a rose.

Who told him, he didn’t know, but Yurio’s widened eyes, filled with admiration and awe as Yuuri demonstrated and explained the move for the Prince, while simultaneously staying in position with ease the whole time, made Yuuri smile for almost the entire morning.

 

* * *

 

One night, on one of the days in which Yuuri felt completely weak and helpless to his situation, he found himself _too_ desperate to busy himself.

He went as far as to spend three whole hours with Leo - one of the castle's servants - trying to catch a group of rats that had invaded the kitchen.

The cook only asked young Leo when she saw them walking together, as they were coming back from a loading task Minako had sent them to, but Yuuri almost _begged_ to volunteer with him.

Anything, anything to keep him away for the majority of the night.

Neither Leo nor the cook knew who he really was, and thus gladly accepted the help.

Meanwhile, the Tsar was once again back in the harem, all grace and power, observing his concubines individually, taking in their appearances, looking at their faces with a frown, and _searching_.

Minako had said it before; _it was a message_. But to whom that message was directed to, and why, Yuuri couldn't fathom.

He couldn't help but think, while consumed with unbearable paranoia, that it had something to do with him.

Yuuri _knew_ it wasn't, god, he knew that. But it didn't help him sleep better at night, dance any better, run errands more smoothly, or even catch rats faster.

Fortnight after fortnight, Yuuri felt like he would _combust_ with anxiety.

What was happening? Why was the Tsar doing this? What was he trying to imply?

Did he find a lover - despite countless rumours stating otherwise - and was trying to prove his loyalty to them by degrading and neglecting his concubines constantly?

Was he rebelling against the wishes of his people? Yuuri had heard it many times before. The Tsar was pressured to lay with many women because his counsellors and his people demanded it from him, stressing on the fact that producing heirs was one of his primary duties as an emperor.

Did he hate it so much that he was showing everyone around him that he wouldn't submit? Doing all of this as a display of dominance?

Or was he simply looking for _someone_ in particular?

Yuuri's heartbeat escalated, and not from the sight of the rat peering at him from the inside of the flour sack he was crouching on.

He imagined it before, many times, in dreams, nightmares, and fantasies, all supplying him with paralysing fear.

Yuuri knew the chances of his fears coming true were slim, even more than before, but that didn't make him any less worried for his life. The Tsar could've easily found out about what Yuuri did with Sara, what Yuuri was _doing_ with Minako, and what he agreed to do with Yurio behind his back.

He had so much guilt and wrongness inside of him that Yuuri didn't know how to deal with it in its entirety.

He was always good, he was always obedient and didn't cause any problems to anyone, wherever he was. He never found a logical reason to. His freedom will never be granted again, he accepted that and tried to live the remainder of his life with the least bit of disturbance.

But from the minute he stepped into that castle, Yuuri's entire world had turned upside down.

Admittedly, his situation was far better now from where he was before, but the constant fear and anxiety didn't allow him to appreciate it even one bit.

Alas, Yuuri seldom noticed any difference between his current stability and his previous years of slavery; mostly because he was often, if not all the time, too busy watching his back, never letting himself believe that he wasn't followed and haunted by the dark, ominous cloud of danger, with nothing to protect himself from it.

The walk back to the harem, as always, was a stress against heart and lungs.

He knew the Taking had ended long ago, yet, he couldn't stop imagining entering the walls and falling into a trap set specifically for him.

That was ridiculous, Yuuri told himself, he was far too insignificant for such attention.

He heard a faint sound, possibly a sniff or a choked sob, and Yuuri raised his eyes to see a girl walking out of the harem and heading towards him, her head ducked down with her hair covering her face.

Yuuri tried to step aside quickly, but the impact was inevitable with how close they were.

The girl swayed slightly to the side when she collided with him, and Yuuri's hands flew forward, catching her on instinct before her balance was completely lost. He tried his hardest to steady her gently, feeling sympathetic of her obviously dishevelled and saddened state. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, he knew.

Sometimes... sometimes Yuuri forgot how dependent the concubines were of their Tsar, how sensitive they became of the man who owned them, the man whom they _existed_ to please.

Yuuri most certainly couldn't relate, but he figured that the recent rejections would've been painful to them, almost _too_ painful with the way the man was treating the harem now.

He recognised her immediately when he took a good look at her, standing shaken in his arms, and even if his sympathies dimmed at the sight of her familiar face, they didn't completely vanish.

She was one of them; one of the girls that taunted him and spat venom at him every time he was in their range.

She had golden hair, cascading down with curls that were always taken care of well, and large green eyes that narrowed whenever she looked at him.

She was as beautiful as they all were, and Yuuri once again didn't understand why Yurio would call them ugly. In character, possibly, but never in appearance, Yuuri was sure of that.

She looked up with blushing cheeks, and as Yuuri predicted exactly, her eyes narrowed into slits immediately in recognition.

" _You_." She spat, her Russian heavy and accented as she pushed him with both hands on his chest, as hard as she could. "It's all _your fault!"_

Yuuri didn't budge from his spot; her shove was simply not powerful enough. The girl was tiny, as tall as little Yurio, and possibly even thinner than the boy.

He just fixed her with a blank, icy stare, and sighed.

It was one of the things he disliked most about them. The unreasonable blame. The unjustified accusations.

What had Yuuri ever done, so they would think that the Tsar was rejecting them because him?

He was seen by his Majesty only twice since he had arrived, and it wasn't like he would desire _him_ out of all the other beauties, with long hair, curls, thin waists and round eyes, all lying at his feet and begging for just one night, for just one _handkerchief_.

It just happened that this all started the fortnight corresponding to Yuuri's arrival.

There were other slaves that were recruited during that period of time, but they were all easily overlooked, of course.

 _Yuuri_ was more noticeable with his odd behaviour, _Yuuri_ had strange eyes that people couldn't look at without gasping, and _Yuuri_ mysteriously disappeared during the Takings every fortnight.

But Yuuri most definitely didn't need their approval; it wasn't what kept him awake at night.

Something far more haunting did.

Yuuri hardened his glare, but not particularly at the girl. The mere memory of the Tsar's eyes irked him as he turned and walked away.

His eyes widened, a gasp releasing from his mouth once he felt a sudden weight on his back.

He fell on his cheek, quickly tilting his head to avoid the solid ground from connecting with his nose and possibly breaking it.

It was more of the fact that he was caught by surprise, rather than the force and aggressiveness of the girl behind him.

She grabbed his shoulder, roughly pulling until Yuuri had his back to the floor, and his face to hers.

"You arrogant _whore!"_ she spat, the palm of her hand landing straight on his cheek. The slap echoed throughout the hallway. "This is all happening because of _you!_ Everything was normal until the day you stepped into the harem! You've cursed this place! You're a curse! A curse! A curse! _A bloody curse!"_

With every angry exclamation, she left a sting on his cheeks. At some point, she began using both hands for each side of his face, hitting him back and forth, forcing his head to turn sideways quicker and quicker, until Yuuri's eyeglasses flew to the side.

When that happened, Yuuri caught both of her wrists, and not because he was defending himself - he didn't really want to - he merely did that so he could be able to respond coherently. He didn't intend to sound so eerie and cold, but somehow he did.

"I _am_. _"_

Her breath hitched, her entire body shaking with fear. That was the effect of his eyes, Yuuri recognized, for he had seen that reaction more than once during his stay.

His hold loosened once he got that off of his chest, and her control and aggressiveness returned when she realized that Yuuri wasn't intending to fight back.

She drew her hand away again, this time in a fist. "Y-y-you _witch_ -"

He heard a loud growl, and the next thing he knew, the girl was shouting on top of her lungs.

Yuuri blinked, his vision surrounding with one color, brown, and realized that the girl's weight had been replaced by a slightly lighter one.

Another growl, and as lovely as the dog looked standing on his legs, the expression the little creature was giving the wailing girl was nothing short of a beast's.

The dark eyed, giant poodle barked loudly.

"By time you got her off of him." A velvety voice commented, and Yuuri heard footsteps nearing. "Good girl, Makkachin."

The dog barked once more. She only relaxed when a hand was running through the fur of her head and ears.

"She looks so harmless, but her teeth could kill. Isn't that right, fierce little girl?" the woman standing above both of them cooed at the pet, her gaze fixing itself on the trembling girl on the other side of the room. Yuuri looked at her carefully, and saw that the slave was clutching her wrist in a tight grip, her fingers coloring into the red of blood. Makkachin had bitten her, and _sharply_. "Don't act so hurt and so soon, dear. This is nothing compared to what the Tsar will do to you once I tell him what I saw."

It happened in less than a few seconds. The girl had gone up to her feet and sprinted out of sight as fast as she could. She took the woman's advice to heart, apparently, as her pain seemed to diminish once she started running with no difficulty.

"Makkachin," the woman grinned, "Catch her."

With another loud bark, the poodle had taken off to the same direction, undoubtedly faster than the girl could ever go.

Yuuri felt a harshness against his chest.

This was _normal_. It happened every fortnight. He didn't need unnecessary problems accompanying the attacks now. What happened was more than enough, he didn't need more attention. He didn't need any rescue at all.

He deserved it, anyway, didn't he?

As the girl stated, he was a _curse_ to everyone around him, and nothing else.

"Please," he said, rubbing his lips with the back of his hand, spitting out the saliva that had gathered in his mouth. At least there wasn't blood this time. "Don't... Don't tell his Majesty, please."

"Why?" the woman asked, taken aback. Yuuri had seen her before, he was sure he had, but where or when, he couldn't recall. "Do you think your pride as a man would be wounded if I did?"

Yuuri wanted to laugh, he truly did, only if he remembered how to.

This surely was a jest, wasn't it?

"You do that," he said instead, completely emotionless. "And it'll only get worse for me."

The lady's familiar blue eyes darkened, as if she was starting to feel as protective as that dog was of him a few minutes ago. "You could've easily pushed her away, you know. You are twice her size."

He shrugged himself off of the floor, dusting off his black tunic that was now torn at the hem. He was already thinking of where he could go and stitch it up. "It's not fair to hit a woman." Yuuri said honestly, "And she wasn't _hurting_ me, by all means."

The merchant's beatings were the only ones that truly hurt.

The lady only hummed. It wasn't a sound of disapproval, nor acceptance. It was plain curiosity.

He still didn't know how to address her, having the constant fear of blurting out wrong titles in this palace, so he made sure to be as polite as he could. "My Lady, thank you for your interference. I'm very grateful." Yuuri tried to sound as genuine as he could, "However, I'm kindly asking for this to remain between us."

"And I'm kindly refusing," the lady didn't waste a second to reply, a small smile shaping on her lips. "Since, after all, Victor would be _very_ angry if I kept this to myself. His dog even more so, if her rage is anything to go by."

Only when he heard the Tsar's name being uttered so naturally, did he recognise who was standing before him.

Tsarevna Mila. _Of course_ , he thought miserably.

Another member of the royal family had entered the scene. Another one of the Tsar's cousins that couldn't help but make his life even harder than it already was.

And another person whom their attention to him made no sense.

 

* * *

 

The girl was hanged the very next day.

It came as a shock to every single person who heard about it.

Yuuri felt empty, his palms beginning to taint with a wicked red the more he stared at them.

Someone else's blood was in his hands now.

And he felt _empty._

 

* * *

 

No one knew the truth as to why that girl was dead, no one had seen her getting hanged even, for His majesty insisted it wouldn't be carried out in public.

The order was issued, the death sentence was carried out, and the only thing the harem was aware of was that she was hanged for disrespect toward a member of the royal family, treason, and unforgivable ill-treatment of a property of the Tsar.

No one knew what that meant, for the slave wasn't seen that night, not after she fled from Princess Mila and was caught by the guards immediately.

Nobody dared to touch Yuuri ever since, in fact, no one had looked at or engaged with him after what happened.

Their ignorance of the acts the concubine had committed caused them to fear even the slightest bit of gossip with each other. No one truly knew what counted as disrespect anymore, no one knew what counted as treason, or _unforgivable ill-treatment._

Most of them still blamed him for it, which was natural. They would've blamed him even if Yuuri didn't have a hand in it from the first place.

He didn't care about that, in fact, he started to wish they knew the truth clearly instead of fearing him more, so they could come back and take their revenge as painfully as they could muster.

Burn him at a stake, maybe, Yuuri thought that that would be the most convenient.

 _She was too young_. He thought every night, his pillow getting soaked with hot, angry tears. _She was too young._

_She was just naive._

_She was just angry._

_She was just a helpless **slave.**_

 

* * *

 

The oddity only continued until it was incomprehensible.

Yuuri took a turn on instinct, having memorised the way leading to Minako's quarters like the characters of his own name.

As often as it was, the front of her closed door was occupied with almost too many people.

As the head of the entire household, Minako was acting as a coordinator to nearly all of the activities taking place in the imperial palace. Many people couldn't carry on with their operations before getting permission or instructions from her first.

Yet, something was out of the ordinary.

Beside a group of servants and commoners standing on one side, the rest of the hallway was occupied with a selection of people that Yuuri had seen before only a rare couple of times.

The expensive and fancy garments of some, and the striking golden armour of the majority, told Yuuri everything.

The carefully selected outfits were of the royal handmaidens, he gathered. The golden armours and long swords were items only the most powerful and well trained guards of the castle wore.

Together, the twelve or so individuals formed the Tsar's attendance.

Upon seeing them the first time, Yuuri thought that the man used them to show his power. After all, with so many people around him, no one could look at them and not feel intimidated.

But that was an illusion, he realised now, because that was just a lie he had told himself back then.

Now, without their Tsar, they looked like any other group of people that stood together in one space.

His Majesty didn't use them to show his power. He used them merely as an accessory, for his power never needed to be shown.

Yuuri should've known that.

He was inside, with Minako, now with only a door and a dozen of people separating them.

And when he came out, not even that would remain.

Yuuri turned immediately, a brush away from a panic attack at the realisation.

He collided with the person standing behind him and Yuuri gasped, apologising repeatedly and moving past them in a rush.

"Yuuri," he heard a familiar voice calling for him. "Are you alright?"

"Y-yes - _yes_!" Yuuri breathed out, trying to feign nonchalance. "I... I was simply overwhelmed by the number of people here, is all! I'm going to stand on the other side of the hallway."

"I agree, it's rather crowded." Otabek looked behind him with consideration, before he shrugged and followed after Yuuri. "I shall wait with you, then."

"Feel free." Yuuri's teeth clinched, cursing his stupidity with passion.

There was no way to escape anymore.

They stood side by side, separated, yet not very far from the Tsar's attendance and the other waiting servants.

The air was suffocating. The hallway was cold, as often than not, but his palms were producing sweat, nonetheless.

"His Majesty won't take long, I imagine, but there are way too many people." Otabek spoke all of a sudden after a few minutes of utter silence, reaching under his sleeve and producing a brown roll of paper. "Will you give this to Miss Minako for me?"

"Of course," Yuuri took the letter with shaking hands. "But can you... can you stay here a bit longer?"

Life was funny, in a way, it was funny because only a while ago, even glancing at Otabek would make him feel like his head wouldn't stay on his shoulders for too long.

He didn't realise when, exactly, the two had become so familiar around each other, that Yuuri would now look at _him_ and feel safe.

Almost three months in the company of Prince Yurio did that, surely.

Whenever his Highness lost his temper and scolded Yuuri for things he couldn't help or didn't do, Otabek would try to defend him as slyly as he could.

It had become an unspoken routine between them, until the knight's job wasn't to protect Yurio’s life around him anymore, but to stop him from offending Yuuri into depression.

Otabek only looked to their side and gave him a firm nod, settling on his previous spot again, his arms crossing against his chest.

Yuuri let out a shaky breath.

"I never had the chance to say this before," Otabek said, eyeing the mass of people with an ever stony face. "But while we're at it... I wanted you to know that you treat his young Highness better than I imagined. I know it's a hard thing to do, but it's a relief to see him smile and be energetic again. Prince Yurio was utterly miserable when he moved to this castle. Your influence had made my job easier, although, it makes me feel guilty."

"Why would it?" Yuuri asked, distracted, but wanting him to continue. Otabek never had the chance to talk much, anyway.

"Because I welcomed you to the castle in a very rash manner. The Tsesarevich will surely not be pleased if he knew; he cares more about you than you give him credit for." He sighed, "We all love Miss Minako, I think even the stable boy would jump for her protection. But I had said some very hurtful things in my rage, and for that I apologize."

"You shouldn't, really," Yuuri said hurriedly, only hearing bits of what he said; his pulse was simply louder than the outside world at that point. The people next to them were starting to shift, possibly from hearing footsteps, and Yuuri was almost beginning to hyperventilate. "T-t-tell me, which way would his Majesty go?"

Otabek, who knew the map of the castle very well, casually pointed at the opposite side from they were standing.

Yuuri knew asking this would risk the revelation of his schemes, but he simply didn't know what else to do. "Can I hide behind you?"

He was paranoid for nonexistent reasons, even a _fool_ could see that, but Otabek humoured him, turning until his back was facing the older man.

Otabek was considerably shorter than Yuuri, but he was broader. It was all what he needed to conceal himself once Minako's door opened, and every single person within miles from the hallway had bowed their heads all the way to their waists.

Otabek was perhaps taking his task too seriously, even going as far as to give only a half bow of his head to stand straighter and shield him.

 _Breathe_ , Yuuri - doing the exact opposite of that - was yelling at himself. _Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe._

"Your Majesty," he heard Minako's voice, pleasant and relaxed, voicing a respectful goodbye to her guest, no doubt bowing herself.

"Miss Minako," the Tsar returned with the same tone, yet, whether it was Yuuri's imagination or not, he heard a bit of reluctance accompanying that polite exchange. It was as if there was an unfinished argument between the two of them.

There were no words after that, just the sound of footsteps getting far. A dozen more, echoing like thunder from the collective amount, followed behind the Tsar, who, as Otabek informed, was heading to the opposite side to them, Yuuri not even close to be seen.

He waited for a torturous long time, even minutes after everyone had released themselves from their bows and stood normally again, before standing himself and heading to the door.

Otabek, however, blocked him by his arm before he made any further move.

The royal attendance was coming back, he saw, a few steps ahead of them walked the Tsar, his lips clipped together into a thin line.

Yuuri didn't see the rest of his face, he was bowing again with everything he had and praying to every superior power in the universe that the Tsar didn't see him.

Instead, something utterly bizarre took place before him.

"Miss Minako," the Tsar said, a bit unsteadily, his previous cold demeanour completely gone and replaced with... annoyance? Impatience? Desperation? Yuuri couldn't tell exactly, but he knew the man had a _very_ expressive voice. "I know that you see me as your own son, I know that very well. And I can trust that nothing you ever do will upset me."

Yuuri could sense the confusion from everyone around him, but Minako answered gracefully, not caring about their audience. "I am very flattered, for I live for your trust, you Majesty."

"I don't know," was the Tsar's reply, "It seems that lately, you live for my pain."

A hush fell on the entire hallway. It wasn't as if anyone was uttering a single sound, but after dropping that bold statement, everyone, for the lack of nothing better to describe it, was completely speechless.

The silence continued for a couple of pregnant moments, until even Minako sounded shocked. _"Victor..._ "

"I'm not upset with you, even if I should be. I understand why you're doing this. I could've forced it a long time ago, but I didn't. I'm respecting your wishes." The Tsar said hurriedly. "But that doesn't mean I'm not hurt."

"What about your concubines, Victor?" Minako argued. Yuuri always thought that she treated him like a parent, but with the Tsar, it was even more evident. And honestly, their familiarity with each other was what shocked him the most. "You should see how they are nowadays. They're heartbroken by what you're doing. And after what you did so recklessly, they're starting to think that they will be massacred. You should take responsibility for-"

 _"I don't care_." The Tsar snapped, raising his voice for the first time. "I don't want _them_. You know who I want."

Minako grumbled in clear irritation at that, as if she wasn't standing in front of an emperor, in front of anyone with importance.

"Your Majesty," a new voice came behind them. "My apologies for interrupting, but the court has been waiting for an hour."

"Goodnight, your Majesty." Minako followed that instantly.

"You are not giving me a chance," the Tsar told her in similar irritation. "But as you will."

Then, he left.

Yuuri had never been more at a loss his entire life.

 

* * *

 

Out of all of them, there was one in particular that stood out, that was worse than all of the other concubines put together.

Yuuri knew she was the one behind the constant mass degrading, was the one who had encouraged the hatred of everyone else and put oil on the fire of his humiliation.

Bianca was her name, and so far, she was his biggest tormentor without competition.

She had spent a night with the Tsar before, thus why her influence was much bigger than the majority of the harem members.

The concubine had short chestnut hair, slightly shorter than his and thicker, she had eyes that were much rounder and lighter in color than Yuuri's, a big bosom he will never have, an hourglass figure that made both men and women alike drool over her, and intense, yet delicate features, which all contributed to the fact that she surpassed him in beauty in every way.

It wasn't like Yuuri compared himself to her, after all, there was no use in doing that considering the place he lived in. But he unconsciously remembered those comparisons, because Bianca herself voiced them aloud so many times that Yuuri had memorised every word unwillingly.

He never had a problem with his ugliness, not before Bianca had set her eyes on him the very moment Yuuri entered the harem, and decided to break him anew with everything she was capable of.

By her cunning way of insult, by describing everything he lacked and everything she _had_ in detail, it made every single word much more hurtful than he thought it would ever be.

Bianca was, as he had to admit, one of the few people that were capable of actually hurting him.

He remembered the day he got his spectacles, how selfishly happy he was with them, and how she crushed him with so many venomous words that Yuuri felt a heavy weight pushing on his chest all night, so many dark emotions running in his veins, and so much self hatred and degradation that he, for the first time in months, thought of the blade again, the knife that would end his miseries with a relieving, satisfying finale.

After the incident of the concubine's death, no one dared to approach him, but she wasn't just anyone. Bianca was special, Bianca was too aware of what she was doing, and Bianca _knew_ that Yuuri needed her venom, more than ever.

He was almost starting to crave it after the rest of them had left Yuuri completely alone and unscathed so abruptly.

As much as his masochistic side wanted it, when she finally made her move; her most powerful attack yet, the rest of him couldn't take how cruel she was, how she was capable of hitting him _exactly_ where it hurt the most.

It had all started when Yuuri stepped out of the washrooms, after almost a whole hour of cleansing since he had spent most of that day in the kitchen, helping the cooks as much as he could.

He dressed in his longest tunic, black as midnight and reaching his knees, its shoulders and entire sleeves made of loose, transparent mesh, and a thin belt narrowing its waist. He then put on a pair of grey trousers that were far too small, but of course, a normal size for a concubine.

Yuuri didn't care how much his clothes revealed of skin and shape anymore, not since he came to Russia. Because well, the moment he walked out of the warm walls of the harem, he would have to dress himself with coats and scarves, covering his body from head to toe, lest he freezed to death.

When that happened, nobody would be able to tell the difference between a concubine and a servant, between a slave and a free spirit.

He only saw glimpses of his golden armlet between showers, and for that he was immensely grateful.

That day, Yuuri made sure to leave a stressful collection of tasks, all situated in the grand library, that needed all night to finish. Or maybe even keep him there til dawn.

He only had to be absent for a few minutes, but Yuuri could never feel safe every fortnight if he didn't do this.

He became dependable to many people, which helped a lot, because now he didn't have to beg for work; people asked for his assistance in their respectful areas whenever they as much walked past him.

He knew all of his skills would finally come in handy, and in Russia they did, hence why many residents of the imperial castle were thankful for him.

After he finished dressing, Yuuri made his way out of the shared washrooms, avoiding the sight of the other two men's naked bodies next to him, and rushed to the sleeping quarters to collect his coat and scarf.

Halfway there, Yuuri noticed the familiar, yet unwelcome blurriness in his vision.

Yuuri returned hurriedly to find his spectacles, only to see Bianca standing next to the men's washrooms, with a smile cruel and unforgiving, and his eyeglasses gripped loosely in her hand.

Her smile morphed into a grin, seeing Yuuri unmoving and yielded. She started walking away casually toward the entrance, where all the other concubines were heading for the Taking.

He shouldn't have, he shouldn't have been so mad, so angry and incredulous, and he _shouldn't_ have followed her.

He had lived most of his life in blurriness, but his eyeglasses had ruined the experience for him. Only thinking of spending the entire night squinting at letters and having headaches ever so often, made Yuuri stubborn, and adamant to return them.

Bianca was standing at the very end of the hallway, and Yuuri could already see the concubines standing in their positions, waiting for the Tsar to grace the harem, yet, looking at the view gave him another rush of sympathy.

Faces that were once full of hope and excitement, were now solemn, crushed, and angry. Their expressions reminded him of the sight of people holding their tears and exclamations, who couldn't do anything else but stand like statues.

He returned his gaze to Bianca, who now had the temple tip of his eyeglasses on her lip.

"What is it, witch?" she snarled. "You're looking at me like you're _lusting_. Did my beauty finally catch your eye, or is that a look of envy I see?"

Yuuri ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing the front strands over his head in frustration. Why did she have to say these things to him at every chance she had?

"Grand Doctor Cialdini made those eyeglasses for me," Yuuri said calmly, "If something happened to them, he will be very upset."

Bianca gave him a mocking, toothy grin before she started laughing loudly. "The Grand Doctor? For you? You want to have me believe that a man as worthless as you has something made by _him_? I didn't know you were a jester, witch."

"Do you really want to act like this?" he challenged, losing his patience, knowing that he had wasted too much time showering and that he might have to run soon. "It seems that you have forgotten about the recent death sentence."

Why did he say that? How did he sound so _dark_ , so _malicious_?

What was he turning into?

Why was he talking back, now of all times, after months of avoiding every single advance?

Bianca was as shocked as him, but she hissed like a snake a few moments after it.

"I might have doubts about the Grand Doctor, but I know for a _fact_ that his Majesty didn't kill her for _you._ " She said angrily, "I saw that fool getting chased by his dog and _everyone_ knows that the Tsar loves his pet more than his entire empire, so don't try and convince me otherwise. _Why_ would he hang someone for you, anyway? Who do you think you are? Your arrogance disgusts me sometimes!" she walked toward him with murderous intent. "You are _no one!_ You are _worthless!_ You're merely a whore that fucked his way into his harem, we all know this by now! Though, I never understood who would ever bother to have you," she bared her teeth at him, "Looking at your face makes me want to vomit every time. You don't have _any_ of the requirements to be here. Your mere presence gives the harem a bad name."

He saw a glint at the corner of his eyes, and Yuuri's hand moved as fast as it could.

Bianca, whoever, had sensed this happening and instantly drew her hand back, stretching it forward once again, successfully throwing his eyeglasses across the entrance of the harem.

"Go, dog," she whispered in his ear, "Go fetch."

Yuuri glared at her unkindly before pushing her away from him, perhaps with too much strength.

She only giggled.

Yuuri was only a few feet away from collecting his eyeglasses, which thankfully seemed intact after the throw.

That, however, only lasted as long as the thought, because Yuuri saw someone emerging from the side. And to his horror, they stepped on them, successfully breaking the lenses into pieces and twisting the frame, folding it in half, beyond repair.

He looked up in disbelief at the male concubine standing above his ruined spectacles, his dark smile an evidence of his intention.

Yuuri's body twisted around, his feet moving him to the exist, back to where Bianca was standing, proud of her achievement.

For the first time, Yuuri felt pure _hatred_ toward every single one of them.

 _They deserve it_ , he told himself, the last bits of sympathy vanishing from his being, the memory of even wielding them was laughable. _They deserve what's happening to them. They deserve all of it. They deserve much more._

"Guard!" Bianca's voice was suspiciously loud, and Yuuri turned bitterly to see why she was shouting.

He caught her eye instantly, for she had been waiting for the contact, and Yuuri observed, in absolute terror, as she pointed a finger at him, smirking.

_No._

_No._

_No!_

_No!_

_NO!_

"This concubine is trying to escape."

Said guard, with a shiny golden armour that made him look much bigger than Yuuri, moved until he was blocking his way.

"N-no, I'm not!" Yuuri panicked, bringing his hands in front of him. "I-I'm not trying to! I was called to the library and I have to go there!"

"Don't believe him, ser, he's a notorious liar." He could clearly hear the smile in Bianca's voice. "You can see his golden armlet, can't you? He's trying to neglect his _only_ duty as a concubine."

The last words stung the most.

What made Bianca so powerful when it came to him, was that she was well aware of his shame.

The Tsar never chose someone twice, and Bianca had already been chosen, thus she had nothing to lose.

She knew that Yuuri, on the other hand, had _everything_ on the line. And the situation in its entirety was merely a source of amusement to her.

The guard didn't talk, but rather voiced his reply in a silent threat. He released his sword from his belt, and planted the tip of its sheath on the ground, _daring_ him to take one more step forward.

And of course, Yuuri didn't. Because it only took a few minutes after it before he heard the royal horn.

He was a coward, a scaredy little cat that amused the thought of suicide, yet was frightened of being murdered by the hands of anyone else, in fear that death wouldn't be the silent end he always fantasised of.

The announcements were made, and upon hearing the sound of boot heels, echoing throughout the entrance, Yuuri stood frozen in his spot. His gaze fixed on the floor, wishing it could burst into a hole and swallow his existence.

As always, Bianca was whispering her venom in his ears, where it belonged, where it welcomed it every time like it was his favourite music.

"You've been avoiding it for so long, but it's by time you feel our humiliation. It's by time you feel how worthless and unwanted you are to him. It's by time you get rejected and know your place, you damn _curse._ "

He had heard it many times, how it happened, how the Tsar walked around and examined their faces in disappointment and distaste.

Yet, this is not what happened this time.

Yuuri wanted to run into the guard's sword and cut his own body in half when he heard the _clack_ of his broken eyeglasses under the Tsar's foot.

His Majesty picked it up, and it only took him a second to view the scene around him, before he started walking in one direction. _His_ direction.

Bianca was his biggest tormentor, indeed, but her words were the only prayer Yuuri put faith on.

_Why would he hang someone for you?_

_Who do you think you are?_

_You are no one!_

_You are worthless!_

_Who would ever bother to have you?_

_Looking at your face makes me want to vomit every time._

_You don't have any of the requirements to be here._

_Your mere presence gives the harem a bad name._

_It's by time you feel our humiliation._

_It's by time you feel how worthless and unwanted you are to him._

_It's by time you get rejected and know your place, **you damn curse-**_

The footsteps stopped in front of him, without even pausing before anyone else.

A hand lifted his chin, and Yuuri was almost _blinded_ by how blue the Tsar's eyes were.

"You." He said with a soft breath, and Yuuri couldn't help but compare it with the way Yurio had said that word to address him before, or similarly, how that concubine girl used it to call him. The word was filled with bitterness and sounded like a spit at both instances. But not this time. This time it was uttered so lovingly, that the sound of it felt like a soft caress against his skin. And why, _why_ were his eyes so much bluer up close? And why was the Tsar looking at him in such wonder? Like he couldn't believe what in front of him was real? " _Yuuri_."

He said it _so_ loudly that no one could've missed it, without even asking Yuuri for his name first.

A number of high pitched gasps filled the room from numerous sources. Bianca, who was standing to his right, might've been one of them.

And Yuuri, Yuuri felt his entire body becoming numb, his mind silencing, turning completely mute, and his prayers failing to be answered harder than they ever did before.

He didn't make a move to extend his hand, so the Tsar had to take it in his.

His touch was a torch, a _torch_ ; nothing ever felt that hot and burned his skin so _badly_.

The Tsar did nothing but stare, and stare, and _stare_ , until a voice called for him which to Yuuri was incoherent, everything was, only the Tsar's eyes made sense, and were so blue that Yuuri was wondering if someone had dipped a high saturated dye into his eye socket.

The touch was gone, Yuuri realised at some point, the hand that was holding his was gone also, and the painting of ethereal beauty vanished out his sight.

He had lost track of time, for the shock was too great, but he, however, did see the Tsar stepping away, not exiting before turning and staring at him one more time with the same look of disbelief, as if to make sure that what happened, actually happened.

Yuuri's gaze dragged down slowly until landed on his outstretched hand.

And he never recalled a time in his life when he had to suppress his tears so hard.

If he started crying, Yuuri begged himself, he wouldn't be able to stop. And everyone would see. He couldn't. He shouldn't.

The Tsar's handkerchief wasn't anything special, and that, alone, devastated him the most.

Because in its plainness, it looked exactly like the white, simple piece of cloth that the merchant had thrown at him after his beatings.

And it made Yuuri think the same thoughts when he looked at it, his fingers clutching around the silky fabric in hopes that he could squeeze it until it disappeared from existence.

It wouldn't clean him. It wouldn't erase his shame, and it wouldn't save him.

Nothing did and nothing ever would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bianca and the unnamed girl are the female skaters that appeared in episode six, the two women that talked to Victor and insulted Yuuri.
> 
> You can see them in [this](https://image.prntscr.com/image/a98293e0ab72489586fd942c6b2a913f.jpg) picture


	5. Aki I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Residents of the imperial castle:_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **Royal family:**  
>  \- Victor  
> \- Yurio  
> (Mila, Georgi, Lilia, and Yakov live in another castle)
> 
>  **Noblemen:**  
>  \- Celestino  
> \- Otabek  
> \- Phichit  
> \- The squires  
> \- The knights  
> \- The teachers/educators  
> \- Some of Victor's councilors (All of them are nobles but the majority of them do not live in the castle)
> 
>  **Ones of common birth:**  
>  \- Minako  
> \- Sara  
> \- Leo  
> \- The handlers  
> \- The handmaidens  
> \- The guards  
> \- The cooks  
> \- The dancers and entertainers  
> \- The clergymen
> 
>  **Sex Slaves/Concubines:**  
>  \- Yuuri (chosen)  
> \- Bianca (chosen)  
> \- The concubine in chapter 3 (non chosen)  
> \- The members of the harem
> 
>  **Regular slaves:**  
>  \- The girl in chapter 2  
> \- The cleaners  
> \- The gardeners  
> \- The stable boys

_Life's suddenly far away, no mistaking_

_It could be you_

_I think it everyday if we're the same_

_If that could be true_

_-_

_We could be on the floor_

_On our backs screaming 'more!'_

_-_

_I know you want me_

_But I've come close enough for now_

_Oh god, you haunt me_

_I'm scared you'll leave me in the ground_  

   


_**Crywolf -[Weight](https://youtu.be/ZQvQFuGXSpI)** _  

* * *

 

 

 

 

A long, long time ago, in an empire Yuuri could never forget, yet can hardly remember, everyone who had lived in a certain period of time witnessed the horror of _Aki_ , and only the few who had survived had lived to tell about it.  
  
Aki, a princess born on a lovely autumn afternoon, was everything that Japan's imperial family had hoped for in a child.  
  
She was obedient, intelligent, handsome, and polite, and held a grace in her that only a few could compete with. She learned everything there was to learn about the empire, about its people, history, traditions and culture, so easily that many wondered if she had been granted the knowledge from a previous life.  
  
At the mere age of twelve, people were already proud to have a woman such as Princess Aki to claim the throne and become the empire's first female ruler, an empress that shall lead Japan to its ultimate prosperity when her father shall pass away.  
  
Their hopes and dreams, however, were suddenly crushed on a similar autumn afternoon, which was anything but lovely.  
  
Aki fell in bed, ill, powerless and overtaken by a mysterious disease that threw all the alchemists around the empire into confusion and helplessness.  
  
A cure was never found, the illness was never identified, the Buddha never answered to her family's prayers, and before her thirteenth birthday, Aki closed her eyes and never opened them again.  
  
Merely days after her tragic death, certain individuals around the palace displayed the same symptoms, and in similar fashion, died within weeks.  
  
Soon, other servants and commoners were captured in that inevitable net of death, and it didn't take much longer until the Emperor of Japan announced that a deadly plague had hit the empire.  
  
_Aki_ , as the plague was later called, did not know a peasant from a noble, and continued to spread like a monster, killing anything and everything in its path without showing any mercy. And as the days went by, citizens all around the capital were falling one after another like flies.  
  
The funerals in the imperial family were held rapidly, and with so little intervals in between. Yuuri's parents, who were relatives of the Emperor, had no other choice but pack at once and head to the capital to serve their duty, leaving a seven and fifteen year old Yuuri and his sister, Mari, respectively, alone in their palace in Hasetsu, safe and far from the plague.  
  
It was so long ago that Yuuri couldn't even recall their words of farewell; couldn't recall what his mother had said while patting his head, a kind and amused smile on her face as she watched her son hold on tightly to her legs.  
  
_'How long will they stay this time, Ane-sama?'_ Yuuri remembered asking as he and his sister watched the carriages leave in dust, for they were used to their parents’ frequent trips.  
  
Mari had shrugged, _'It wouldn't take longer than a fortnight, I reckon.'_  
  
It did, however, it took much, much longer than that, so much longer that Yuuri would forever regret asking, that Mari would forever regret answering.  
  
Yuuri didn't know why he was thinking about _Aki_ then, of all things.  
  
Nonetheless, to him, it eventually came to symbolize many things other than the infamous disease, or the legendary princess.  
  
Whether it was punishment, or fate, it did not matter. He merely realized that everything he had done so far since his escape was running, and running, and running from the aftermath of _Aki_.  
  
But _Aki_ was waiting this whole time, never intending to sit by and let him run too far.  
  
And eventually, _Aki_ returned after taking so much from a seven year old Yuuri, to take back the remaining of her debt.

 

* * *

 

 

People were suddenly scattered all over the entrance, men and women rushing in all directions like a swarm of bees, bees that weren't heading to collect their nectar, but to run away from a danger.  
  
Maybe _he_ was the danger, Yuuri thought, spotting a group of servants heading his way, their postures shaken, but faces determined.  
  
The last thing Yuuri saw before being escorted by the handmaidens was Bianca's devastated expression, no longer holding any sort of venom or bitterness, just pure sorrow.  
  
Yuuri liked to believe that she understood what she had done to both of them, and hoped, beyond sense, that the devastation would remain rooted deep within her and never fade away.

 

* * *

 

  
  
Yuuri didn't understand many things.  
  
He didn't understand why four people had bathed him when he was capable of doing that on his own, or why they had insisted on it in the first place, even after Yuuri repeatedly told them that he had showered merely half an hour earlier.  
  
He didn't understand the scented soaps being rubbed against every corner of his body by eight wandering hands, the herbal balms and oils dipped into his wet hair, or the thin blades running across his chin and cheeks that he had already shaved prior.  
  
He didn't understand what that one servant was heating in the corner. All he knew was that it smelled like burned sugar and wax, and that it made him feel nauseous.  
  
He didn't understand why they had dipped a stick into that burning, heavy mixture, spread it on his skin, and removed it instantly when it dried, without a warning, without a word to describe the overwhelming amount of pain that came with that simple action.  
  
He didn't understand how they were able to ignore his screams as they continued on and on for what seemed like hours, removing every single hair on his body with harsh pulls, not one spot remaining untouched and violated.  
  
"Knock on the door when you're finished," Yuuri distantly heard one of the handmaidens say, "Prepare yourself thoroughly. Don't cause yourself too much pain." She instructed, then said as an afterthought under her breath. "Or too much pleasure."  
  
He turned his head ever so slightly to see that she was merely a couple of inches away from his face. Yet, he swore that he had imagined her far, far away, not that close to him, not that insistent, not that _real_.  
  
He didn't feel his arm anymore when the woman pulled at it, the entire limb numb from their excessive brushing, from their unbearable rubbing, and from whatever they had inflicted on him that felt like he was being skinned alive under their hands.

She placed a small, crystal bottle in his hand, and ushered everyone else outside without any further words; Yuuri didn't need any clarification, nor did any of the others.  
  
"Shouldn't someone stay and watch him?" came a whisper.  
  
"No need." The woman answered knowingly. "He's very well trained. He can do it better than all the rest if what I heard was true."  
  
_It wasn't true_. He glared at their backs. _None of it was true._ **_None of it._ **

 

* * *

 

 

He stared at the bottle in his hand, the steam of the washroom heavy and fragrant in his lungs. The blurriness of his surroundings were the only comfort to his situation, the monochrome of that closed space an delusional protection. But the bottle stayed fixed, clasped within shaking fingers, the thick liquid inside of it barely moving.  
  
He had been acquainted with that bottle far more times than he could count, its use and purpose were not an unfamiliar concept.  
  
He never knew what they were made of, Yuuri mused, still in shock to what was happening. The lubricants they made him use were always oily, yet they smelled of some sort of flowery fragrance. Its exact ingredients remained a mystery to him even after all these years.  
  
He wondered if it was a poison, if he could open the lid, shove the head of it into his mouth, and drink it to his death.  
  
Yuuri wasn't certain of the outcome, however, and didn't necessarily want that risk to fail and leave him with too many complications.  
  
Thus he stood on wobbly legs, kicking the small, makeshift seat aside, bracing one hand against the tiled wall, and arching his back in defeat.  
  
The lubricant was slick as ever against his fingers, and thankfully, when he entered one of his digits inside himself, it didn't feel as cold and harsh as it usually did.  
  
Yuuri then proceeded when he was confident enough, adding a second finger, then a third, opening himself up thoroughly as the handmaiden instructed, without much pain, and of course, without too much pleasure, or _any_ pleasure.  
  
There was a spot, he knew, a spot that Yuuri had avoided purposefully since the first time his fingers hit it without knowing.  
  
And since then, he made sure to never, ever touch it again. He didn't need that feeling associated with his torment; he didn't need to feel any pleasure to reconcile his constant suffering of the identity he was forced upon against his will.  
  
He clenched his teeth, resting his forehead against the dripping condensation of the washroom wall, trying his hardest not to make any sound. He wouldn't do it, he would never do it, he would never give them the satisfaction of seeing him succumb to such urges.

It was hard, he remembered once again - a fact he always tried to ignore and forget, it was hard because it wasn't only the spot that made him feel that strange, unwelcome, _contradicting_ euphoria.

 _‘You are quite sensitive,’_ any Madam who had detected it would say, _‘That's very good.’_  
  
For his first time preparing his hole to be taken not just for usual training, Yuuri had done everything he could. The fear of physical pain accompanying his inevitable trauma driving him to stretch that ring of muscle as much as it was possible.  
  
It would've made the Madams proud.  
  
In a moment so consumed with hatred, disgust, and bitterness, Yuuri brought the tip of one of his free fingers inside the bottle, then ran it against the front of his tongue.  
  
And he held so much more tears back, because it definitely didn't taste like poison.

 

* * *

 

 

Sara moved her hands very delicately.

Yuuri didn't know if her touch was so faint because she had done this many times before, or if she was too scared to touch him directly and was trying to keep her hands away from any actual contact.

The gown was pretty. It was pretty in every way that could mock and degrade his figure. It was made of three pieces, loosely sewn together and requiring an expert hand to dress him with it correctly.

Sara fastened the middle piece around his waist with a golden belt, clasping it as tight as possible to show how unhealthily narrow he was under his clothes. Yuuri had the desired thinness that the Madams had punished him many times before when he couldn't maintain it, denying him meals, and extending his dancing practices until they nodded their heads in approval at the resulting shape of his body.

Next, Sara draped the remaining two parts around each of his shoulders, without anything to support them other than the belt they were tucked under, letting their ends fall behind his naked back, ready to let loose any minute if he as much swayed to the side.

The gown was white as snow flakes floating in the air, untainted, unlike the ones that touched the dirt on the ground. He found the likeness very poetic, and imagined himself falling from the sky, pure and innocent, only to soil when he reached the earth, when the night was over and the Tsar would do whatever he wanted to him.

 _Ancient Greek men wore this, too._ Yuuri tried to convince himself, tried to ignore the fact that they were disregarding him as a man and dressing him, yet again, with something so unmistakably feminine. Something that did not cover anything other than the front of his torso and a portion of his shoulders and legs. _It was an evidence of literary and scholarship._

Yet, he knew that it was not true, that with his current state, he could easily be mistaken for a woman by anyone who saw him, because so little could prove otherwise at this point.

Yuuri remembered a time when he craved to dress in such styles, as he was being constantly awed by the elegant fashion of women’s wear. He dreamed of a day when he could finally be free to wear anything he wanted, to dance with face paint on his features, smile with lips red as wine, and twirl with a mesmerizing spin of his colorful skirt.

He couldn't pinpoint when, exactly, it had turned into such disgrace.

The white of the fabric symbolized innocence, he supposed, so it can be a clear canvas to the Tsar’s act once a concubine leaves his quarters with little stains of blood proudly shown.

Yuuri wasn't a female, not fully, at least, yet he found himself fearing that he might leave there bloodied as well, his virginity taken away painfully. He expected everything and didn't allow himself to see any snippets of mercy anymore.

He was let down by those positive thoughts too many times to ever be foolish enough to consider them again.

Yuuri should have gone with his parents to the capital thirteen years ago, he reflected, if he had begged hard enough to go that day, if he had clutched on his mother's yukata more tightly, if he had cried like a spoiled child, everything leading to this night would've been erased from existence and would have never happened.

But alas, Yuuri was still in that room. Now somehow finding himself seated on a chair facing a dresser, with no memory of actually walking there and sitting down. Everything was an indistinguishable blur since he heard the royal horn of the Taking hours ago.

Something was in his hair, he felt, something wooden and hard. Yuuri dared a glance at his reflection, ugly, pathetic, and _weak_ looking reflection, and saw Sara neatly combining through his now shiny hair, pushing all of his wet strands back against his scalp.

With a kind smile, Sara placed the comb on the dresser, and gently secured a jeweled headband on the crown of his head, golden, of course, and matching the leafy design of his belt, keeping his short hair slicked in place. She then smeared a balm against his frozen lips before picking a tool that resembled a painting brush, running it against a black piece of chalk then carefully stroking it against his eyelashes with lifting motions, leaving them even thicker and longer than they already were. She was grabbing a small tube next, and rubbing its head on the line of his neck, the action unleashing a very pleasant smell into the air and against his pulse point.

Yuuri let her do anything she wanted to him without any resistance. At least Sara was more gentle than the others. He didn't have any other choice on the matter, and all fight had already left him after he had used his energy screaming at the handmaidens to stop.

Said handmaidens were patiently standing behind them, waiting to escort Yuuri to his doom.

Frowning uncertainly, Sara grabbed a round packet, opening its lid and dipping a sponge on the powder inside. The handler patted it on one side of his cheek before she stopped, smiling slightly and putting it away.

“You don't even need it.” She whispered, and Yuuri didn't understand what she meant by that statement. “You are ready.”

He looked at himself again and wasn't surprised. Even after all of their efforts, Yuuri was still ugly, he was still pathetic, and perhaps looking even _weaker_ than he already was before.

The golden armlet, after such a long time of being concealed and forgotten, was now sparkling with the brightest shine under the lights. Proud of its presence, wicked, and mocking Yuuri for his stubbornness and wasted efforts, of useless dreams and foolish desires of keeping his pride.

Beside his frame on the reflection, Yuuri saw a singular, strange expression taking over the faces of everyone in the room as they stared at him, from Sara, to the handmaidens, and even to the two guards standing by the door.

Widened eyes, uneasiness, and a slight dust of pink on their cheeks.

Yuuri didn't understand the cause of that sudden shift, he didn't _want_ to ever understand.

The door of the dressing room was suddenly pushed open, revealing an angry figure that observed the surroundings with a scowl, before she opened the door and pointed to the other side.

“Out.” Minako barked, her tone filled with authority. “ _Out_. All of you.”

In a matter of seconds, the room was clear, save the two of them, eye contact avoided from both parties, the air even more suffocating than it had been prior to her entrance.

“Yuuri,” Minako looked down in shame, as if this whole thing was any of her fault. “Yuuri, I-”

“It was all my doing.” Yuuri finally admitted, surprised by how hoarse his voice was, how empty, lifeless and resigned he sounded even to own ears. “There is no one else to blame but myself.”

If he hadn't followed Bianca like an enraged hound, if he had not threatened her, if he had swallowed his pride and dignity the same way he had been doing for four years, Minako wouldn't have looked so ashamed, Minako wouldn't have been that distressed, or sad.

 _Poor Minako_ , he thought, glancing at her terrible burns once again. _She didn't deserve any of this._

“I always wondered,” Yuuri said, awfully calm, awfully _unnatural_. “What happened to that servant girl four months ago? What did the Tsar do to her?”

Minako pressed her lips into a thin, barely there line, and looked away. “I don't know; no one knows. Who would care?”

“ _I_ would.” Yuuri frowned. “He killed her too, didn't he? He killed her merely because she called Mila a _duchess_.”

“Yuuri-”

“Would he kill me as well?” Yuuri asked, hopeful. “Would he kill me if I stared at him in the face and called him a peasant? Can you guarantee it?”

“Stop.” Minako whispered, “He's _not_ a monster, he will be very gentle with you.”

“He hanged two slaves for _nothing_.” Yuuri turned on his chair, facing her with a look of disbelief. “He has been waiting to choose me for  _months_. Why do you think he wants me so badly, for my _ethereal_ beauty?” he snapped, his tongue sharpening with sarcasm.

Minako looked at him, mournful, as if he was losing his mind right in front of her.

Perhaps he was.

She wasn't answering, so Yuuri allowed his rage to take over, allowed himself to voice his loudest thoughts. “ _He_ did this to you, didn't he?”

Minako’s good eye narrowed, “Did what?”

“ _Burned_ you. Denied you from becoming the dancer you always wished to become. Enslaved you and took away your freedom.” Yuuri raised his voice, suddenly feeling the streak of the very dark emotions he tried to keep at bay for so long. In a blink of an eye, all of his guilt for making Minako feel distressed had faded, and was now replaced with something he couldn't name. “And you… and you treat him like he's your _son?!_ Where were you when _I_ needed you? When _I_ needed a mother?! You used to serve our house, bow and call me _Yuuri-sama_ when we weren't alone. And now… now you run this man’s whorehouse, cover his murders for him, and you're trying to convince me that he _wouldn't_ hurt me?! What else did he do to you so you could even believe that?! Did he-”

Suddenly, Yuuri’s line of sight shifted until he was facing the other corner of the room. His head had whipped to the side, and his cheek were warm and throbbing.

Minako’s slap, compared to the many he received before, was the most painful and lasting in its pain.

“You are wrong, Yuuri- _sama,_ you are wrong about many things.” Minako choked, her voice breaking. “I know you are going through so much, but please don't pour your anger on me. I, I tried, I tried _so_ hard...”

 _I'm sorry,_ Yuuri wanted to plead. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. You were there for me when no one else was. You've given me a reason to keep on living. You were my ray of hope. Don't hate me. Please don't hate me. I need you. I need you. I need you-_

“Don't call me that. You don't have the right to call me that!” Yuuri spat, his unreasonable fury at her not diminishing so any of his reasoning would surface, “I will never be that person again! I'm not your innocent master anymore! I'm not even a concubine; I'm _below_ that. I'm merely a _sex slave!_ Nothing more!”

Minako sobbed, and even if he couldn't see her, he knew that the tears had collected and were falling. He didn't want to look, he didn't want to witness what he had just crumbled with his own hands and words.

Minako. Strong, willful Minako. The woman with so much grace and power that people in wherever nation she was in envied her. Minako who didn't flinch or submit to even an emperor, Minako who didn't let anyone look down at her, was now crying from hurt, crying because of _Yuuri_.

He wasn't surprised.  Self destructing, after all, was the only thing he knew how to do.

She was at the door now, opening it with a quivering grip. Yuuri straightened himself again and did not turn, yet he could feel her gaze on his back, intense and pained.

“I did become a dancer, little one.” Was her last words to him before she exited.

Despite everything that he had done, despite all the numbing pain, he let that statement wash over him. He let it deliver the little bits of joy that she wanted him to feel, no matter how underwhelming it was compared to the rest of his mental turmoil.

She had forgiven him in an instant, he knew, but Yuuri would never be able to forgive himself.

 

* * *

 

 

The walk from the harem to the north wing was humiliating.

Yuuri had his own attendance now, he noticed, four handmaidens, a handler, and two guards following his trail.

The many people surrounding him did not give Yuuri any strength or importance, it only served to highlight how he was a captive under so many people.

Whomever they passed by tried to take a peek, their curiosity terrible and ever present. Everyone wanted to know who it was: the concubine that the Tsar had been waiting for for all these past months.

Who was that beauty, that majestic creature, that sorcerer, that managed to cause such a ruckus?

Yuuri didn't blame them. If he was in their shoes, he would have wanted to know too.

But he wasn't in their shoes, no, he was now in the center of the spotlight, a pariah that people pushed each other to catch a glimpse of.

He didn't want to count how many he had disappointed that night.

At least the ones he worked for and helped constantly did not seem to recognise him. Yuuri, after all, looked like an entirely different human being then.

Perhaps his life wasn't over, perhaps only a part of it was.

The north wing - the part of the castle that was reserved only for the Tsar - was massive and perhaps three times as big as the entire harem, even with only the tiny glimpses he was able to see.

The door of the private quarters could fit a gigantic mythical creature, Yuuri thought, remembering all the dragons he read about in countless books and making estimations in his mind.

He was doing everything he could, begging his thoughts to steer away from all the fear for the time being, and focus on anything, _anything_ other than his destination.

He was good at it. He was good at numbing himself. He always did when it required, and perhaps this was a new form of punishment, but nothing he hadn't expected and saw beforehand. He could surpass it; he could survive it if he was obedient enough and followed the thousands of instructions that he was fed for years, all preparing him for this particular encounter.

 _It would hurt, it always does_. He knew that.

 _They won't care about your own needs and pleasure, that's not what you're there for._ He memorised that.

 _You are a tool, a vessel._ He accepted that.

“Yuuri,” Sara’s voice awakened him from his revision. She slid her hands under the fur coat they draped on him, and collected the warm material in her arms, leaving Yuuri bare to the cold. “Take off your slippers, would you?”

He did. And she took them calmly, smiling as if Yuuri’s life wasn't flashing in front of his eyes as she did so.

“I'm your handler, so whatever you do tonight will be a proof of my own skills and training.” She winked, and the secret she implied between them was something Yuuri did not recall at the moment. “Be yourself, Yuuri. I know what you can do just by being that. The Tsar had chosen one of the best, if I may say so myself.”

 _You are crazy_. Yuuri wanted to shout. _You are crazy, don't you see what I am?_

“Don't forget to kneel once his Majesty acknowledges your entrance. Don't deny him anything, and give him all he wants.” She hummed, reciting her thoughts. “Be obedient, and don't talk unless he allows you to.” Her smile turned reassuring, “He will reward you handsomely if you are good, dear, which I don't doubt you will be. You are one of the lucky ones, so make sure to be grateful.”

 _If he killed me,_ Yuuri considered, _I will_ _be._

“ _Sara_.” Someone hissed behind them.

Sara did not seem fazed at the guard’s warning, and continued to smile that warm smile at him and him alone.

Somehow… somehow Yuuri began to feel that she was aware of the storm inside of him, and was trying to stall the time on purpose, giving him space to breath and not break right then and there.

The mere thought, although it had no evidence of being true, was almost enough to send the waterfall of tears that threatened to break out all night down his cheeks.

But he held them back, and without thinking, held Sara against him.

Her frame was petite between Yuuri’s arm, the fur coat she was holding acting like a soft pillow between them.

“Thank you.” He buried his face into her shoulder, breathing in into her familiar perfume and using the embrace to give him enough strength to go through the night.

It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. But it was, sadly, all what he had.

The guard called her name again, the second warning dressed with a thicker tone of threat, and it was time for Yuuri to let go.

There were, strangely enough, two pairs of purple eyes on his back as Yuuri entered the Tsar’s private quarters, one awed, and the other murderous and spiteful.

But Yuuri did not see it, he did not have time to anticipate what that reckless action would cause him in the future.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite being barefoot and barely covered with anything but cool silk and jewellery, Yuuri felt very warm the moment he stepped inside, perhaps the warmest he was since the day he entered the frozen empire of Russia.

The master bedroom of the castle was massive, far bigger than Yuuri had anticipated, but he didn't dare look at anything but the view in front of him, which was the biggest, fanciest bed he had ever seen in his life.

He sensed a movement at the far end of the room, and had to fight against his loudest instincts that were telling him to open the door behind him and flee, but he didn't, he couldn't. Unfortunately, he wasn't stupid enough to do that, not suicidal enough, not _yet_.

Yuuri gulped, cupping a hand on the strap of his dress that was slipping down ever so often, and reluctantly allowed his being to be consumed with fear so great that his heart felt as if it was sinking down his ribcage and into his middle.

He was so scared. He was so scared. He was so, _so_ scared.

Despite everything telling him not to, Yuuri slowly, and fearfully chanced a glance to the right.

And that's when he saw _him_ , his body turned sideways to face where Yuuri was standing, one of his hands resting on the base of the window behind him in a tight, shaking fist, his face too far for Yuuri to see what exact expression was taking over it.

His lips were slightly parted, Yuuri saw, not daring to look any higher than that.

He should kneel, Yuuri reminded himself, remembering what Sara had told him, trying his hardest to break the paralyzed state he had found himself in.

The Tsar’s eyes were on him, he felt, so intense, so haunting, so demanding, and so, so _terrifying_.

Yuuri tilted his head downward, grabbing the sides of his gown and praying that he did not look as shaken as he felt, and slowly bent his knees to kneel on the floor as dutifully as he could muster.

It happened so fast, it might’ve been because Yuuri was taking too long, or because the Tsar was so quick to make his move, but Yuuri couldn't tell, he had lost any track of time long ago.

All he knew, was that the sound of rushing footsteps filled his ears before they were replaced with heavy breaths.

Two warm, burning hands were on each side of his face, covering his temples and the skin behind his ears, forcibly pulling Yuuri up before he was even halfway gone into kneeling.

“Yuuri,” his name, once again, was uttered so lovingly, in such a breathy manner that it almost didn't sound like his own. The Tsar’s thumbs brushed back and forth against his cheeks and the sides of his lips, lifting Yuuri’s head until their eyes met. It only lasted for a fraction of a second, however, because the Tsar’s eyes were extremely unfocused, quickly moving from one spot on his face to the other, examining, checking, and perhaps memorizing. He almost seemed hurt and wounded when Yuuri first looked at him, until he would realise, long after that night, that this was what adoration looked like. “You… you look like a _dream_.”

 _He speaks French quite nicely_ , was one of the thousands of thoughts that swam in Yuuri’s mind at that moment, one of the few that weren't related to pain, misery, or _Aki_.

The taller man’s eyes almost looked green from the faint light of the candles, not the same bright hue of Yurio’s, although similar in shape, but a bit more unique in their hue, darker, yet more vibrant. It made him understand, for a moment, why the residents of this castle never agreed on which exact color they were.

His hands released his face, only to slide down to his neck, then to the exposed parts of his shoulders, the touch gentle and sparking a harsh trail of burns in their wake.

Yuuri’s nose filled with the man’s lovely scent, a mix of the finest of fragrances, of roses and lavender. He would've been completely lost in the way the Tsar’s eyelids closed shut, the way his head swayed in random motions, taking in Yuuri’s presence with gratification. His cheek moved against Yuuri’s, his nose brushed against Yuuri’s ear, his jaw against his forehead, his mouth against his hair. His breaths were loud, sensual, and too much.

Yuuri _would've_ been completely lost, almost, only if the voices and alarms of danger inside his mind weren't so loud and dominant, reminding him repeatedly of where all of this gentleness was going.

Yuuri tried to close his eyes and dive into the hyperactivity of his senses, so overwhelmed by the simple actions of the man in front of him. But he couldn't, not when the loose part of the gown was almost going to fall completely and leave his shoulder naked and with no cover. Simply following his instincts, Yuuri hand grabbed on the fabric, trying to quickly tuck it back in place.

The Tsar opened his eyes, beautiful, sharp, and knowing eyes, his head pulling away from his ever so slightly, his gaze following Yuuri's hand.

Slender fingers tapped on Yuuri’s knuckles, commanding him silently to pause his action, which Yuuri didn't. The ghostly touch turned into a rough grip, surrounding Yuuri’s hand and forcing it to pull down the silk, exposing his shoulder entirely.

Yuuri bit back a gasp when cold lips landed on the soft skin of his shoulder, kissing it once, twice, thrice, and slowly moving upwards, leaving a trail of wet kisses all the way to his collarbone. The Tsar’s hand held the back of his neck, restraining any movement as he latched on Yuuri’s throat, his lips turning harsher with each kiss and suck.

The Tsar’s lips attacked one tiny point that Yuuri knew existed somewhere on his neck, but never predicted how it would feel to be touched. The sensation was enough to force his eyes to close and his lips to purse together tightly, holding off any noise that would indicate how overwhelmed he was. But the Tsar must've sensed the shiver that ran down Yuuri’s spine, inviting him to continue, rougher and with more persistence until Yuuri let out a loud, shaky breath.

The movement finally stopped, and the man's mouth paused its ministrations. Yuuri opened his eyes, and a flash of silver was the last thing he saw before the Tsar’s hold on the back of his neck tightened, and Yuuri’s lips were suddenly covered by the same, cold ones that burned every part of him that they touched.

The Emperor of Russia kissed better than any concubine and Madam that Yuuri knew of. Yet, he wondered which one of them had better skill, for Yuuri was always praised to be a remarkable kisser.

He wouldn't know, not when he was so petrified, his lips frozen, his eyes wide open, and his heart punishing his ribcage with such brutal friction.

He hadn't cried in front of anyone since the first time a Madam trained him. He had never allowed himself to, no matter how harder his life became the following years.

The Madam didn't care about his tears, the nobleman didn't care about his tears, nor did the merchant ever care. They never stopped their continuous torture; if anything, his tears only served to make them more adamant on ruining him 'til there were none left to shed.

But Yuuri, pathetic, weak Yuuri, couldn't stop the single tear from escaping. The Tsar probably couldn't see it; it was so small, thin, and barely visible, but Yuuri _felt_ it, felt the tremendous weight of that one drop, felt every bit of his dignity falling with the salty liquid from his eyes and down to the soft, expensive carpet under their feet.

Yet, the Tsar opened his eyes, wide, and pulled away instantly as if Yuuri was caught in flames.

Only when he saw that the other man was a few feet away did Yuuri breathe again, taking in a sharp inhale, feeling the tortuous pound against his ear, the soreness of his lips, and the unreliability of his balance.

It wasn't a single tear anymore, he realized, observing the width of the Tsar’s pupils. The tears were pouring down and nothing could stop them anymore.

If there was anything he hated the most in the world, it was looking weak. He had known, from experience, that the weakness he always felt and saw in himself was sometimes overlooked by others, that his stiffness and reluctance often appeared as arrogance rather than vulnerability. Thus, his weakness was never shown openly, not when Yuuri had never allowed it to.

But the instant the Tsar stepped forward again, one hand raised as if to strike him, Yuuri, as hard as he could, flinched back and tried to show his weakness in its most deliberate display.

Yuuri wrapped his arm around himself, one hand closing over his naked shoulder and his head turning to the side. He bent his spine, his form shrinking and his eyes sending a pleading look of an animal about to be beheaded toward its butcher.

 _Please, please don't hurt me. Don't hurt me like the merchant._ His form was begging, _I'll be good. I swear I'll be good. Please don't hurt me._  
  
Yuuri clenched his teeth, the tears continued to stream down, and he didn't want to stop them anymore, not when they were helping him.

After several moments of anticipation, of waiting for his owner to punish him, Yuuri’s vision finally cleared, his eyes landing on the Tsar’s raised hand, only to see that they were both raised together.

Looking closely, it almost seemed as if the Tsar had lifted his hands to reach out to him, not to beat him like Yuuri’s mind had automatically predicted at first.

 _It couldn't be,_ Yuuri brushed that thought away immediately. He was being an _inconvenience_. A Tsar wouldn't tolerate that from anyone, let alone a sex slave that was too terrified to do his duty.

“Don't,” the Tsar whispered, so low in tone that Yuuri nearly missed it. “Don't cry.”

Yuuri shivered at the command, straightening his back to its normal position, having expected it to be voiced any second. Thankfully, his tears had dried then, and he knew they wouldn't be triggered again for a long time.

The Tsar was clearly startled; he must've not witnessed a slave so incompetent before in his entire reign, Yuuri guessed. If the other concubines of his harem were anything to judge from, then he was, indeed, as Bianca always pointed out, someone who was giving the harem a bad name.

Yuuri wondered how soon he'd be exiled. He hoped it wasn't too soon, he didn't want to part ways with Minako so abruptly.

The mere thought made his blood run cold, the realization of what he had done to his former teacher barely becoming clear.

The Tsar ran a hand through his silver locks, clearly not having anticipated this outcome. He crossed the room, stopping in front of a small round table and pouring a drink into a large glass made of colorless marble.

The man swallowed an entire serving of rich, red wine with three massive gulps, tightening his hold around the glass when he finished. He was shaking, Yuuri could clearly see, from anger and rage, most likely, which served nothing but make his fears grow back.

He was going to make him pay for it, Yuuri knew. He was merely trying to decide which punishment was painful enough.

Another glass was chucked down faster than Yuuri could follow, and he began wondering if the drunk Tsar would be as cruel as the merchant when he drank.

“Ah, Yuuri,” the Tsar suddenly spoke, and the bitterness in his voice was something Yuuri couldn't miss. “That concubine who attacked you… Mila said that she had left you unharmed, but I want to be certain. Did she hurt you? In any way?”

Yuuri felt himself quivering under the piercing gaze of the Tsar behind his shoulder, as if he was ready to dig the girl's body from the grave and hang her again if Yuuri confirmed that she did.

Or perhaps, her Highness had said something different, and the Tsar was merely waiting for him to lie so he could have a reason to hang Yuuri as well. It wasn't like he would favor Yuuri’s statement over a member of the royal family, anyway.

Nevertheless, Yuuri shook his head, not trusting his voice, and remembering Sara’s warning not to speak unless he was allowed to.

“Are you certain?” the man asked again, more bitterness in his tone, as if there was anything to be done if Yuuri said otherwise. The girl was dead, _dead_. “Because I could…”

He left it there, not continuing that statement.

He could _what_? What was he implying? And why was he asking him this after all this time? Even if she had managed to cause him any physical injury, Yuuri would've been healed by now.

Yuuri shook his head again, and from the Tsar’s reaction, it wasn't what he wanted to hear.

He poured himself a third glass, groaning when he drank it to its last drop.

With a fourth glass in hand, the Tsar made his way into a chair facing Yuuri, his form less stiff, yet more revealing of how irritated he was.

He smiled, nonetheless, forced and cold, then glanced at the side of his bed and back to Yuuri, “ _Oh_ ,” he took a large sip, his plastic smile widening as he placed the glass on the nearest table. He bent his body as he reached out to grab the item resting on the spot he was looking at. The movement made it clear that yes, the rumors were true, and even when he was dressed in a loose tunic and trousers, made of the finest of black silks, the Russian Emperor's form was as impressive and well built as the stories said. “Would you do something for your Tsar, Yuuri?”

He placed a wooden case on the mattress, unlocking it to show a beautiful violin inside, elegant as its owner, and shining from the undeniable quality.

The Tsar turned to him, wrapping a hand around the neck of the violin and holding the bow in the other. “Would you dance for me?”

His question must've been a mock, as if Yuuri had any other choice but to comply.

Either way, when Yuuri didn't answer, the Tsar sighed and ran the bow against the strings experimentally, fast and without elegance, just enough to make Yuuri hear what he wanted him to dance to.

“Yes?” the Tsar looked at him again for confirmation, and _of course_ Yuuri knew that melody, no matter how different the tunes were coming out of that lone instrument, for he had only heard it from orchestras before.

It was one of the most sensual pieces that were ever created, a piece that almost every concubine knew how to sway and move along to, dancer or not. He had learned how to dance to that piece of music not even months after his slavery. Yuuri had perfected every single movement, had repeated them so many times in so many nations that it was almost engraved into his bones.

He didn't completely understand the Tsar’s character yet, but with his choice of music alone, Yuuri already knew what he saw him as.

A tool for pleasure, a person that pleased, and nothing else.

Yuuri adjusted the shoulder piece of his gown, wondering how he will be able to move without ending up partially naked.

But he would try, because this time, he wasn't dancing in front of a crowd to entertain. He was dancing in front of one man, for his _life_.

Tsar Victor placed the chin rest of the violin appropriately in place, resting his fingers on the neck’s strings, and the bow above the bridge’s, making one eye contact with Yuuri then preceding to play.

If Yuuri didn't have to stay in form, prepare to break his pose and dance accordingly, he would have been awestruck by how well the Tsar actually played.

The man proved that the sample before was just a fragment of what he could do with that instrument.

Yuuri had heard that composition countless times, but somehow, somehow this man had played it better than any musician he had heard before.

 _Why,_ Yuuri thought hard, disbelief almost showing on his face and breaking character. _Why would a Tsar practice such a cheap piece of music so many times?_

Yuuri wasn't ignorant; no matter how talented the Tsar might be, to reach such perfection, he must have practiced it endlessly.

God knew how many other concubines he forced to dance with that particular melody.

Yuuri grabbed his invisible partner, locking them in his embrace.

He did not want to know. The thought alone was enough.

It wasn't a challenge, Yuuri had to admit. For a normal concubine, that dance should be spontaneous, sways of hips and soft hands running through their body sensually, whatever move that came in mind that would attract and please. But to Yuuri, it was a product of many practices, of many repetitions, and of many efforts to memorize the steps until the spontaneity faded and only the ability to train and apply had remained.

The Tsar, for the most part, had his eyes closed so he could focus on his playing. But occasionally, Yuuri would turn in an angle and see the man gazing at him with a stare that held so many intentions, intentions that Yuuri was too scared to decipher.

With a tilt of his head, Yuuri caught a glimpse of a black and white painting resting in a corner on the ground and leaning against the wall of the room. It was blurry, but even with his terrible sight, Yuuri was able to see that it was placed upside down, neglected, unfinished, and not meant to be displayed.  

There was something strange about that portrait, something that made him feel uneasy about the person drawn on the canvas, and the person that drew them.

There were no major mistakes in his performance, if Yuuri could recall, save the occasional grimace as he broke his character a few times, a little untimely sway from the weakness that swept in some particular moments. Yuuri’s expressions were as good as he could manage, the spins were steady enough, his hands touched the places they were required to, his smirk might have been believable, and all the attempts of keeping his outfit whole were successful.

The song had ended, and Yuuri almost mourned the loss of such pretty melody, until he was reminded of where he was once again.

Yuuri breathed normally, his cheeks warm and the heavy pants involuntary. He tightened his arms around himself, not breaking the final pose and glancing at where the Tsar was sitting, only to see that he was on his feet, tossing the instrument carelessly on the mattress.

He smiled wide, completely genuine this time, making his way slowly to where Yuuri was still standing, “Yuuri, that.. that was-”

Yuuri stepped back the moment he came too close, his fear returning to his core when he saw that the Tsar was about to touch him again. He looked pathetic, he knew that, but he couldn't help it.

The Tsar’s smile instantly vanished, his jaw tightening and his dismay more intense than it was the first time.

That was it, Yuuri closed his eyes. Knowing that he had pushed his luck the furthest he can.

He would grab him, he would ignore his screams, he would throw his body into the bed, and he would have his way, as painfully as he could.

The Tsar was done with entertaining the whore that wouldn't do their job.

“You are dismissed.”

Yuuri’s eyes opened in shock, spotting the Tsar, with a hand covering the side of his face, walking to the table to retrieve his glass of wine, then heading back to stop by the window, the place he was standing on when Yuuri had first entered the room.

Sensing that Yuuri was still behind him, the Tsar placed one of his hands on the window's base, his shoulders tense. “Didn't you hear me?” he spoke impatiently, “I said you can _go_.”

Yuuri immediately turned, somehow managing to gather enough wits to figure out how to open the large wooden door.

“Oh, and Yuuri,” the Tsar said in a dark tone, making Yuuri freeze in fear. “Tell the guards not to disturb me tonight.”

Yuuri slipped outside as fast as he could, his breaths hitching and his heart resuming its violent beat.

He had almost reached the end of the corridor separating the Tsar’s bedroom from the rest of the quarters when Yuuri heard a crash, an unmistakable sound of glass shattering against a hard, uncarpeted surface, most certainly a wall.

And Yuuri ran to where Sara was waiting, trying his hardest to ignore the look of disbelief on the guards’ faces, who no doubt heard their Tsar’s rage as clearly as Yuuri did.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a frequent occurrence for Yuuri to be unable to sleep for most days, his insomnia a problem he learned how to bear with for so long and without any complaint.

But that night, it was terrible.

Sleep was the only escape he could think of to forget about that day’s events, even if it was accompanied with nightmares and unpleasant pictures. At least, at least they were fragments of his imagination and not concrete memories.

Yet, as usual, his body betrayed his wishes and forced him to lie as consciously as he feared.

He couldn't wrap his head about what happened. There were too many paths and destinations that his actions might lead him. But Yuuri was certain of one thing: he had entered a course that would shape his destiny into something horrific and there was no return from it.

It was only a matter of time before the consequences would dawn on him in the most terrible of ways.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and that was _it,_ Yuuri had imagined it so vividly not a while ago, someone waking him in the middle of the night, covering his head with a sack, and leading him to his death. Perhaps to be beheaded, tossed into the ocean, or so that history could repeat itself, get burned until he was crippled.

Instead, when Yuuri opened his eyes, he didn't meet the villainous guards he saw in his imaginations, but it was a young, handsome face, expressionless and composed.

Yuuri sat up slowly, not making a sound, yet shocked all the same.

Otabek nodded his head into the exit of the harem, and held a hand for Yuuri to take.

Reluctantly, Yuuri allowed the knight to pull him to his feet, following the younger man until they were walking through the long corridors of the castle.

While Yuuri was trying to rub the blurriness out of his eyes, Otabek chose that opportunity to speak to him about what was happening.

“He couldn't sleep all night,” the knight said, in a tone which suggested that Yuuri was already aware. “He wants to see you this instant.”

Puzzled, Yuuri entered the door of the practice room after Otabek, spotting Prince Yurio, dressed in a sleeping attire with his back to them.

Yuuri bowed, even when Yurio couldn't see him. “Your Highness-”

“Pig.” Yurio grumbled in irritation, “If I had ever said something that offended you, I want you to know… that I _wholeheartedly_ meant it.”

Yuuri blinked, clueless to where the conversation was heading, yet knowing very well where he will find himself when it was over.

He had predicted that as well in his thoughts, when Yurio would realize that he had been tainted and not worthy of teaching him anymore. When he will realize how Yuuri upset his cousin, and take it upon himself to punish him for his arrogance. Yurio might have not been perfect in his manners and his treatment of him, but he was a perfect student nonetheless.

Yuuri would lie of he said that he wouldn't mourn the loss of their lessons, which turned from something that fueled his anxiety to an activity he looked forward to at each dawn.

“ _You_ , you are an idiotic, infuriating, and _repulsive_ man!” Yurio turned, his eyes glassy under the light of the moon as he quickly made his way to Yuuri, his teeth gritted and an index finger stabbing Yuuri’s chest in anger. “You are all of those things, but you're _not_ a whore! I won't allow you to become one!”

Yuuri’s mouth hung agape. On his side, Otabek was nodding stubbornly along that nonsensical declaration.

“I am the Tsesarevich of this empire, I can - I can -” Yurio pushed his finger harder on Yuuri, struggling to find the right words to say. “I _free_ you. I - you should get out of this castle - I don't - I don't want to see you here again. Do you understand?!” the Prince stuttered, “There's a village near the borders of Japan. Otabek will accompany you-”

“The trip would last five hours if we take the horses,” Otabek confirmed, voice firmer than Yurio’s. “If we leave now, we can reach our destination by the morrow, and find you the first ship to sail across the sea.”

“You have my permission, then,” Yurio quickly nodded, turning to face Yuuri with determination. “ _Go_ , pig, go home! Pass the borders and return to your kingdom! Victor doesn't understand, he will never understand, but _I_ _know,_ I know you don't belong in this whorehouse-”

Silence.

Yurio was small, no matter how big his words sounded or how loud his statements were. He was small, young and clueless, and Yuuri embraced him tightly, hoping he didn't notice how his face was crumbling with every phrase.

“Thank you, your Highness,” Yuuri smiled into his shoulder, a smile that radiated most of his sadness and despair. “But I am a criminal. I was stripped of all my titles when I escaped; I am not considered a citizen any more. By Japanese law, I would be killed the moment I pass the borders.”

Yurio was twelve years old, soon to turn thirteen this spring. Even his capable knight, his most trustable counselor, with his mature and level headed character, was barely sixteen. Sometimes Yuuri would forget that fact when interacting with them, and see them instead as two adults who understood how the world worked, how most lovely thoughts never applied to reality.

“All my belongings were taken when I was enslaved,” Yuuri continued, patting the Prince’s back. “I will not be able to survive if I decided to go anywhere else, either.”

Yurio pushed his chest, breaking the embrace violently.

However, Yuuri put both of his hands on the boy's shoulders, hurting both of them by his explanations.

“I am honored, your Highness,” Yuuri said, “But you're not the one who owns me. The only person who can free me is his Majesty. Nevertheless, if the Tsar did release me one day it would do more harm than good, for I will find myself in a worse situation.”

It took Yuuri half a day of tasting freedom before he was captured. He did not want to know how long the second time would take, not when the outside civilization proved so hard and cruel.

He did not want to meet another man like the merchant. _Never again,_ he chanted in his head, _never again._

“ _Bloody hell_.” Yurio hissed, rubbing a hand so tightly against his face that he was almost squashing it. Yuuri would never admit to the Prince that he had seen his angry tears. _"_ _Damn it all!”_

The boy rushed to exit the room, running, leaving Yuuri alone with Otabek for a couple of short instances before the knight went after him.

Before he left, however, Otabek had bowed his head slightly, wordless and yielding.

It had been so long since anyone had bowed for Yuuri, yet, it was the first time someone had ever bowed to him out of pity, and pity alone.

He stared out of the window, the skies foggy and dressed with condensed clouds, the moon coloring them with a radiant color of grey.

As a slave, he had thought of it before, so many times and during every waking moment, even as recently as his arrival to Russia, imagining a universe that did not exist out of his mind.

The sky was the only place that Yuuri would have an essence of the freedom he desired, and he wondered how much longer he needed to endure before he could find a place high above and never come back.

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri wondered how many eyes could possibly be on him now, how many envious and hateful looks could be cast his way whenever he moved inside the harem walls.

They were many, they were so, _so_ many.

Yuuri now had his own jewelry, a golden headband and a belt that signified that he was chosen, that he was currently above in rank than the other concubines that were never picked.

Normally, he would have been expected to carry twice as much when he came back from his night with the Tsar, since their emperor always left his concubines with fancy gifts upon their leave, but none of them knew what Yuuri had done, and perhaps none of them would ever know.

He no longer had to sleep alongside so many others in the sleeping quarters, for he now had a room on the second floor of the harem, reserved only for the chosen ones, warmer, more private, and isolated from the buzz of the first floor, with a small bed that wasn't attached to a dozen of others, and with a tiny dresser and a window he couldn't reach.

Yuuri didn't want any of it, he never wanted any of it, but they did not know that.

They didn't know anything. No one knew anything. But all sorts of news circulated nonetheless.

He began wishing that half of those stories told about him were true, if he were that powerful, confident witch that had held the attention of the most powerful man in the empire, an attention that did not leave his life hanging on a thread, a thread that could be cut at any moment.

He was a show puppet, dancing only with the movements of the master's strings. And Yuuri could only hold on for much longer until his owner decided to pull him behind the curtains.

 

* * *

 

 

After a few loud knocks, the person inside had given him permission to enter, and thus Yuuri did.

“Lord Chulanont?” he called softly, “You summoned me?”

“Oh, Yuuri!” the person sitting on the desk waved his hand excitedly, “Come in, come in! I'm almost done.”

Silently, Yuuri shut the door behind him, entered the Grand Doctor’s quarters, and walked his way to stand next to the desk.

Chulanont was a handsome young man, a few years younger than him and close to Otabek in age, but with an opposing character; so vibrant that it filled every corner of the room. The smile almost never faded on his face, and as talented and as intelligent he was, his features gave nothing of that away, but instead showed a playful being, friendly, agreeable, and easy to converse with. Yuuri could count on one hand the number of people he met in his life that were so comfortable to be in their presence like that.

“I used the same measurements we took for your first lenses,” Chulanont said, a tongue sticking out on the side of his mouth as he tightened the tiny screw on the spectacles in his hands. “But if your sight had worsened since then, we can change it. The frame is brand new, however, and is in a different shape. This one's harder to break.”

Yuuri knew that even if his sight, indeed, had become worse, he would never confess it. It was enough bother to the doctor and his apprentice as it is.

“Here you go.” He pushed the magnifying glass to the side, and blew on the spectacles before handing them to Yuuri, with a smile as bright as the sun. “Ah, we used different materials, as told... “

When Yuuri examined them closely, he understood, in a horrifying realization, what he meant by that.

The lenses weren't round, but rectangular, and the body of the frame was made with something far shinier and smooth than to be considered a regular type of metal. It was _silver,_ pure silver. The tips were coated with an unmistakable glint of gold, and two stones, each on one side of the frame, were sparkling so stunningly that it almost gave Yuuri a stroke.

 _Those aren't diamonds_. His hands almost dropped the eyeglasses on the floor in shock. _They can't be diamonds._

“I chose the diamonds myself!” Chulanont beamed carelessly, as if they weren't more expensive than Yuuri’s entire existence, as if it won't take him the rest of his life to pay for them. “Take my word for it, Ciao Ciao does _not_ have taste in such things. He even let me forge the golden parts, it was much enjoyable!”

“My Lord,” Yuuri pleaded, nearly throwing the spectacles back to him, “ _This_ \- I can't - There is _no_ way-”

“Oh, call me Phichit!” he responded, neglecting the remaining of his plea. “I am not even a doctor yet, and Russian honorifics still sound strange to me. Oh, and speak to me in English, would you? I think we have butchered their language enough for today.”

“Lord Phichit-”

“Phichit.”

“Phichit- _kun!”_ Yuuri snapped, “I can't afford this! It took _months_ of my allowance to pay for the last ones!”

Phichit’s thick eyebrows rose to the top of his head, Yuuri almost thought that he would either mock how poor he was, or scold him for raising his voice.

Instead, Phichit grinned, chuckling as he said, in perfect English, almost matching Yuuri’s: “Yuuri, it's a _gift_. I don't need a single coin. I told you, we made them per command.”

“ _Who's_ command? _”_

“Why,” the younger man exclaimed. “His Majesty's, of course. He even wanted us to put rubies on it. It's a wonder how Ciao Ciao managed to convince him that it would make them uncomfortably heavy. And Yuuri, do you know how fast we had to work? _Goodness_ , he wanted them made overnight and wouldn't settle for less.”

“ _Huh?_ ” was all what Yuuri managed to utter.

 _What does that mean? What does that mean?_ Yuuri’s mind raced. _Why is he giving me gifts? Why is he doing this? What is he trying to prove? What does he **want**? _

“Oh, Yuuri,” Phichit laughed with closed eyes, “You're so amusing! _Nothing_ like the stories.”

Yuuri pursed his lips, somehow managing to shut his mind and form a coherent reply to that strange, and sudden observation. “Stories?”

“I…” Phichit’s laughter died down, making Yuuri feel guilty at the loss of such lively sound. “I am sure it's nothing you haven't heard before…”

Yuuri clinched his free hand, turning his head away in shame.

“I had no idea, I apologize.” Phichit continued, “People from the harem always talk about that… that _evil witch_. The whole castle had heard about your alleged wickedness. But I didn't know it was _you_ , I always saw you helping people around and took you as a kind servant working under Miss Minako. I and Leo talk about you all the time! Even Cia Cia was clueless. I saw you at the infirmary many times before, tending to your own injuries, I thought... I thought that you were clumsy when you worked, that's why you were there so frequently. I tried to approach you and help you, but you always shied away. I only knew the truth yesterday morning when we started working on your eyeglasses. It's such a strange thing, isn't it?”

Yuuri sighed, “I wouldn't know.”

“They are only stories, Yuuri,” Phichit assured him. “Everyone knows that the concubines tend to exaggerate. I only found out by chance.”

“They are.” Yuuri found himself saying.

“Sorry?”

“They _are_ only stories,” Yuuri repeated, hoping he could cleanse his image to him, at least only a little. “I mean, Phichit-kun, take a good look at me.”

Phichit shook his head, “From what I've seen, you are not wicked, and certainly not practicing any witchcraft. Maybe you are a bit too shy and reserved,” he giggled, “But not everyone is like me, I suppose!”

Yuuri blinked. That might have been the kindest, truest thing he had ever heard about himself in a long time. “That's-”

“Leave you from that,” Phichit waved, uninterested in what Yuuri had to say. He reached to the end of the table to grab a pad of papers and a small, sharpened piece of black chalk. “Now, let me see how this masterpiece looks on you.”

Carefully and slowly, as if his own hands would shatter the eyeglasses to pieces, Yuuri put them on, noting how comfortable they were on his nose, and the bigger coverage they provided than the first ones.

The world, once again, was sharp and bright with detail. Yuuri had definitely missed the stunning clarity.

“Goodness!” Phichit cheered, loud as ever. “He was right, this shape does suit you more!”

Yuuri glanced at the young lord, his fingers fastened around the piece of chalk that now began to move against a paper with fascinating speed.

“Phichit-kun?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Phichit turned, his focus breaking. “Can I draw you? I sketch really quickly, I will only take a few minutes.”

“Of course.” Yuuri replied, awkwardly standing still and wondering why Phichit even bothered to draw someone like him.

“I am no Russian emperor with silver hair, per se,” Phichit smiled as he worked, “But I can’t go through the day without drawing at least a dozen of random sketches.”

“The Tsar paints?” Yuuri wondered aloud.

Phichit hummed in confirmation. “I heard he drew countless masterpieces when he was young. There's a painting of her Highness, Princess Mila, on the grand corridor. It is one of the most beautiful pieces I've ever seen. Though, I heard he has not drawn in years.”

Yuuri looked at nowhere in particular, remembering that one black and white painting he saw resting on the floor of his Majesty’s bedroom.

“Is he as charming as they all say?”

Yuuri frowned. “What?”

“The Tsar.” Phichit clarified, distracted by his sketching. “All the concubines describe him as such a symbol of charm and elegance that I find it hard to believe.”

“It's not false, exactly.” Yuuri whispered, not knowing how to describe that man with justice. “He’s so…”

“Hm?”

Yuuri recalled the Tsar’s raised hands, how he wildly drank his wine, how beautifully he played, how he moved from one corner of the room to the other in such long, fast strides, how he bent to grab his violin, how carelessly he threw it when Yuuri finished dancing, how upset and angry he was when he dismissed him, and how he shattered the marble glass against the wall once Yuuri left.

“He's-” he paused, barely registering how true his conclusion was. “He's less graceful than I imagined.”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri felt a hand shaking his shoulder, and with a startled jump, he found himself leaning on a chair in the grand library of the castle, nearly pushing it until he fell on the floor.

“Son?”

In a haze, Yuuri glanced in front of him to see one of the librarians, a worried expression on his face.

“It's half past midnight,” the old man said with a kind smile, “Go rest. You have been in here all day.”

Yuuri nodded, ashamed of falling asleep, yet again, on the pile of work he had for that night. He didn't know when, exactly, he had finished all the translations, he only knew that the tiredness hugged him like a bear the instant he wrapped the last letter.

Bidding the man goodnight, Yuuri arranged all of the letters on the empty corner for Minako to find them in the morning, feeling the little doses of guilt when he realised that almost two days had passed and Yuuri still did not have the courage to confront her after what had happened.

Lazily, Yuuri walked out of the library and into the corridor that trailed to the harem, briefly passing the staircase leading to the north wing with a sudden rise of awareness. The mere reminder of the night he climbed them to the Tsar Victor’s private quarters was still too recent to overlook.

Yurio did not want him to be a whore, Yuuri thought back with a sigh, but even that wasn't set on stone.

If the Taking had gone per ritual, Yuuri would have stayed in the harem for a few months before he was transported somewhere else, so another young, beautiful, fresh concubine could take his place.

The place he could be sent to was not to be decided until more concubines arrive, but his role will be undeniable. He won't be considered pure and untouched any longer, and would be treated as such, as a whore who would be passed from one man or woman to another, whoever paid best, with a price a lot of people could easily afford.

But Yurio did not know that the Taking had not gone per ritual, and Yuuri was, as ever, clueless to his fate.

Lost in thought, Yuuri failed to notice how dark, silent, and isolated the path was, failed to notice that he was not alone.

For Yuuri was distracted, feeling the weight of his eyeglasses almost crushing his nose from their worth, from what they signified.

 _Maybe_ , he thought, taking them off to rub the hem of his tunic against the lenses, cleaning them for the hundredth time that day even when he knew they were as clear as they could be. Unconsciously, he worried that his mere skin might ruin them. _Maybe the Tsar gave me that handsome gift because he had forgiven me?_

 _Or was the Tsar setting a trap?_ The more dominant part of his mind supplied. Was he making Yuuri feel safe and assured just so he could punish him at the least unexpected time, and mock him for ever daring to feel secure?

It was only then that he had sensed it, a mere silhouette in the darkness, their head held upright with a gaze directed solely on Yuuri with purpose.

Even with the little light in that narrow corridor, that person's eyes were so vivid and crystal clear, providing the only color he could see in that small medium of space, two large irises painted in a shade that only one other individual in that castle had.

But those ones weren't round, bright, and pretty. They were cut into dangerous slits, holding eye contact with him in a look he had come to recognize over the years.

Yuuri held the spectacles in a clenched hand before raising his head, and it did not take much longer until it happened.

It was almost written prior, that particular scene. He could have worded the exact outcome on paper, with every little detail only short moments before what he wrote would come true. It happened to him so many times before, that predicting those scenarios were now fairly easy.

An angry, clenched fist connected with Yuuri’s face, solid, sharp knuckles digging into his eyeball with so much force that it threw his entire body to the side.

The back of Yuuri’s head hit the wall beside him with a loud _thud_ , the impact as hard as the punch that caused it, or perhaps even harder and much more painful, and for one, fully conscious moment, Yuuri thought that during his entire stay in Russia, no one had ever hit him like that before, no one had ever come close to, many as his previous attackers were.

The anger that radiated off of his attacker, however, was something he was far more familiar with for it to be a surprising encounter.

He didn't know whether to laugh at what his life had become, or cry a waterfall. It did not matter, he was incapable of doing both of those actions, anyway.

 _“I will_ **_kill_ ** _you the next time you lay a hand on her. Do you understand?!”_

 _No, I don't understand!_ Yuuri wanted to shout back, but he felt like he had swallowed his tongue when he was hit. _Why don't you do it now?!_

But alas, nothing happened after that, the deed was only halfway done and his attacker had already walked away with rapid footsteps that echoed all around him.

Yuuri slid against the cold wall, a pitiful, loud moan escaping his throat from the pain.

His balance was in shambles, and Yuuri could barely feel it when he had reached the floor. His legs extended before him, useless and resigned.

The infirmary was too far, his body was not moving, and Yuuri was slowly forgetting where he was. The last candle in the corridor was slowly extinguishing with the hurried whiffs of the wind, careless to his dilemma.

But Yuuri saw them, he saw a glimpse of their evident sparkle with his good, uninjured eye, in a hazy view that resembled a mirage before everything turned into darkness, from the absence of light, or the loss of the last bits of his consciousness, Yuuri did not know.

 _The eyeglasses aren't broken_. He thought before closing his eyes in surrender, relief washing over his every bone. _Victor would be mad if they were broken._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**\+ Aki:**_ Autumn (The season represented withering and death)
> 
>  _**\+ Yukata:**_ Traditional Japanese outfit
> 
>  _**+Ane (in Ane-sama):**_ Older sister
> 
>  _**\+ Yuuri's gown and accessories:**_ [image](https://image.prntscr.com/image/lZSz6DCjSXGuXjZt6Ju5nw.png)
> 
>  _**\+ The music Victor played:**_[On Love: Eros](https://youtu.be/cfv8qTZevrw) (Violin Version by Sefa Emre İlikli)  
>   
> 
> All the reactions, discussions, and theories that sparked on the last chapter were incredible! Please don't shy away from opening conversation and reaching out to me, I reply to everything I receive one hundred percent.
> 
> For the ones who so kindly suggested songs for this fic, thank you so much and they shall be featured in my future author notes for the chapters that fit them.
> 
> The word count for this chapter almost reached a ridiculous 30k and I had to cut it in half, so there will be 13 chapters in total. 
> 
> Thank you so much and have a nice day :*


	6. Aki II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _| Characters' Ages |_
> 
> **Yuuri:** 20
> 
>  **Victor:** 24
> 
>  **Yurio:** 12
> 
>  **Minako:** 47
> 
>  **Otabek:** 16
> 
>  **Cialdini:** 42
> 
>  **Sara and Michele:** 19
> 
>  **Mila:** 16
> 
>  **Phichit:** 17
> 
>  **Leo:** 16
> 
> * * *
> 
> _| Timeline |_
> 
> **Yuuri was:**
> 
> 6 when Minako left (14 years ago)
> 
> 7 when _Aki_ spread in Japan (13 years ago)
> 
> 16 when he escaped and was captured (4 years ago)
> 
> 20 when he arrived in Russia for the second time (4 months ago)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Special thanks to my wonderful editor [Chelly](https://www.wattpad.com/user/ItsjustChelly) who sprinkled her magic on this mess <3

_Lie awake in bed at night_

_And think about your life_

_Do you want to be different?_

_Try to let go of the truth_

_The battles of your youth_

_‘Cause this is just a game_

_-_

_It's a beautiful lie_

_It's a perfect denial_

_Such a beautiful lie to believe in_

_-_

_Everyone's looking at me_

_I'm running around in circles, baby_

_A quiet desperation's building higher_

_I've got to remember_

_This is just a game_  

**_30 Seconds To Mars -_** [**_A Beautiful Lie_ ** ](https://youtu.be/izVFVo2eq4M)

* * *

 

 

 

It was the hardest thing to do to figure out the exact orientation of his body, let alone process all the noises echoing around him, loud, vexed, and filled with panic in all forms and from various sources, all of them so hard to tell apart and decipher.

Yuuri had been tossed over someone's shoulder, the position causing his abdomen to ache terribly. The collision of his head against the person’s back revived the overwhelming pain on his face, his senses barely registering its intensity with every rushed stride.

_"Hand him to me!"_

Yuuri felt a hand brushing his back, and an arm sliding across his shoulder blades, holding him tightly, then another, resting under the back of his knees.

Yuuri’s body flipped upside down, his head hanging toward the floor from the lack of support.

The shouting came back, louder this time and even more panicky. Yuuri wanted to beg the man holding him in his arms to stop, because the throbbing in his head was becoming unbearable.

His neck was starting to sting, and whether the person sensed the discomfort or not, he shuffled Yuuri closer to him so that the back of his head was pillowed on his arm.

Yuuri’s face was now against the man’s chest, and he couldn't help but appreciate the familiar scent that filled his nose, sweet and heavy with roses and lavender.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 “Yuuri,” a gruff voice called as Yuuri’s consciousness took its time to fully return. “Ah, finally. Here you are.”

The throbbing in his head continued, so painful and harsh against his skull. He just wanted to know who was stabbing so many needles into the side of his head, and why.

Instead, no one was. When he opened one of his eyes, he found Cialdini's face in front of him, his brows joined together in a crease of concentration as he covered Yuuri’s other eye with bandages, leaving something very cold underneath them.

_“We wouldn't be able to find anyone at this hour and the whole castle is asleep. We have to wait until the morning at least. ”_

_“She's right, your Majesty. We cannot do anything until we know what exactly happened.”_

His eyelid weighed kilos and he was tired, he was so, _so_ tired from the pain, from the loud racket in the background, and from the punishing bright lights of the countless candles in the room. He was so tired of it all. He just wanted to surrender to the exhaustion and go back to the painless nothingness, and perhaps never recover from it.

“Yuuri,” Cialdini called again, more insistently this time. “Stay with me. What's my name?”

 _“Nekola,”_ a call came from behind them. It was as loud as the rest of the voices, yet, that one was overly calm and composed. In a way, it made the command sound more terrifying and authoritative. _“ **Nekola**?” _

_“Y-Yes, your Majesty?”_

_“Where's Crispino? He's the one who found him. Where's he?”_

“Cialdini...” the mere amount of concentration Yuuri needed to remember was about to make his head explode. “Phichit… Phichit calls you Ciao Ciao.”

“Yes, yes he does. Very good.” The doctor smiled, wrapping a bandage on the uninjured side of his head to fully block his eye. “And what is yours?”

“Yuuri.”

“Your mother's?”

It took him a moment. “Hiroko.”

“What a lovely name.” Cialdini fastened the bandages with a small metallic clip. “Do you remember what she was like?”

“No… no I don't.” From Cialdini’s worried face, Yuuri clarified. “She passed away when I was young. I can...”

Yuuri stopped talking the moment he realized what he was about to offer. He was going to say that he can tell him about his sister instead, only, Yuuri wouldn't have been able to tell him much about her, either.

He could barely remember anything about Mari, and it had absolutely nothing to do with his head injury.

_“I… I did not see anyone else in the corridor, your Majesty. It was very dark-”_

_“How did you let this happen?”_ the one eerie voice returned, making Yuuri twitch in his spot. _“Did I not tell you to keep your eyes on him?”_

 _“Your Majesty, Michele_ _and I were changing shifts at the time of the attack. This was entirely my fault.”_

 _“No, Emil,”_ the response was an angry whisper, _“It's_ **_mine_** _, and no one else's.”_

“No, no need to say anything. Your memory seems perfectly fine.” Cialdini said, relieved. “Do you know who attacked you? And if not, describe them for me.”

Yuuri tried to organize and differentiate all the vague memories and voice them, but it was all in vain. “Give me a minute...”

 _“Listen carefully,”_ loud thuds of footsteps echoed around the room. At that, Yuuri allowed himself to finally look past Cialdini’s shoulder. Minako was there, he saw first, unable to remain still and moving back and forth rapidly, only stopping to watch the person who passed her and headed to the two men standing on the other side of the room. Yuuri recognized both of them, for they were the same guards that stood in front of the Tsar’s door at the last night of the Taking. The Tsar’s footsteps stopped in front of the shorter guard, and Yuuri felt a cruel shiver running down his own spine when he saw that cold smile on the Tsar’s face. Yuuri had only seen something that _resembled_ it when he talked to that servant so long ago. Yet, this one, this one almost radiated death itself. _“_ I'm in no need of two useless guards. If you don't find the culprit and bring him to me, _by god,_ I'll have both your heads on a spike instead. Do I make myself clear?”

Yuuri hissed, one of his lids burning as he tried to keep it open, the other one in flames from the pain.

“Yuuri,” Cialdini’s tone sharpened. “Where does it hurt?”

“My head.” He whined, cupping the back of it, “ _My head._ ”

His complaint came out louder than he intended, enough to notify everyone of his presence. The conversation instantly dropped and the sound of two different sets of footsteps neared to where Yuuri was sitting, one soft and almost inaudible, while the other was quick and robust with its movements.

Rapid questions were fired toward the poor doctor, who seemed quite taken aback and overwhelmed by their amount, and more evidently, by the person who was asking them.

The Tsar couldn't decide on what to inquire first, and was demanding to know everything from how long Yuuri had been conscious, to how bad his state was, and to what exactly Cialdini had done to him. All at once. His sentences were tangling together from the quickness of his speech, which was barely making any of his words sound clear.

Cialdini collected himself and stood from where he was kneeling in front of Yuuri. The doctor tried to respond to each question calmly, but as soon as he realized that his Tsar was not focused enough to pay any attention, he directed his answers toward Minako, who was now standing next to them and nodding to each word.

The Tsar’s blue eyes held Yuuri’s in an unbreakable, uncomfortable gaze. They were telling so many statements by their width and sharpness alone, yet none were verbal for anyone to hear, just for Yuuri to sense and quiver under.

All he said to him aloud was a combination of three, simple words that meant nothing other than a death sentence. _“Who_ was it?”

Yuuri drifted his line of sight ‘til it spotted the person standing in the back, looking at Yuuri as if he was the reaper himself, holding the end of a scythe above his head, ready to end his life with only one answer.

_He is one of your own guards._

_He has a slightly dark tone of skin._

_Brown hair._

_Exceptional violet eyes._

_He’s most certainly related to Sara._

_He is standing right behind you._

_His name is_ **_Michele Crispino._ **

“I don't know.”

The Tsar blinked. For a few moments, no one spoke, no one even moved or breathed aloud. Disbelieving eyes pinned Yuuri down, a hair away from causing his resolve to break and the truth to unleash.

But it didn't. Because whenever Yuuri stole a quick glance toward his attacker, the man's face would become more pale, his posture more shaken, and his pupils wider. If Yuuri as much leaned back and allowed his mind to drift, he would see Michele surrounded by darkness and death, with crimson blood running down his mouth and jaw, with colorless hollow in his eye sockets, and with skin even paler than it already was, so pale that he wouldn't be able to differentiate it from clean sheets of paper.

And Yuuri didn't want that. Yuuri would never want that.

Sara would be sad, and Yuuri didn't want Sara to be sad.

The Tsar’s eyebrows furrowed together, irritation seeping in into his face slowly at the unsatisfying answer, “Do you not remember?”

Yuuri shook his head.

“Can you at least tell me what they looked like, Yuuri?”

He shook his head again. “I don't know.”

“Where did they go after they attacked you?”

“I don't know.”

 _“Why_ did they attack you?”

_“I don't know.”_

In a matter of seconds, the Tsar was standing right in front of him, his hand resting on the side of the chair, and his body leaning in slowly until he had Yuuri in a cage under him.

From the corner of his eye, Yuuri saw the Tsar’s hand trembling as he spoke, “Don't lie to me, Yuuri. _Who_ dared to do this to you?”

He looked down to his lap, his chest hurting by his irregular, suppressed breaths, his ribcage shrinking tortuously, only serving to add additional pain into his body. Yuuri's surroundings smeared in foggy clouds of blurriness, his vision getting deprived from any pivot,

“He will kill him.” Yuuri choked, using his mother language so only one person in the room can understand his pathetic plea. “He will kill him too. I have enough blood in my hands. _Please._ No more… _No more.”_

“Your Majesty.” Minako instantly interfered, because of course she would. Because she would never waste a chance to jump to her student’s rescue. Because she was the only one who was able to see how bad his state was.

Because she was all the hope that Yuuri had. Now, then, and always.

“This was the second time he was attacked right under my nose.” The Tsar said, then paused to stare Yuuri down. “Unless… there were more which I'm not aware of?” he whipped his head toward Minako. “What did he say? Who attacked him? How much does he rememb-”

 _“Victor,”_ Minako rebuked in horror. “Victor, good god! You're _scaring_ him!”

In an instant, Yuuri was released. And only then did he exhale the large breath he was holding against his will.

The Tsar had detached himself from his side and had stepped back the same exact way he did the night he saw Yuuri crying. This time, however, his hands weren't raised in the air. They were now flat on his sides and slowly disappearing behind him, as if the man was trying to hide them out of sight; Yuuri’s sight.

Minako had taken his place and was rubbing comforting circles on Yuuri’s back, in a way he did not deserve after what he had done to her.

“Oi, little one,” she whispered gently, talking to him in Japanese. “Calm down. He's only angry because he cares about you, don't you see? I am angry too. Who wouldn't be when you're this hurt?”

“You don't...” Yuuri whispered back. "You don't kill people when you're angry."

Minako winced, standing upright and directing her next words to the Tsar. “He says he did not see anything. Michele, do you vouch for this?”

The guard blinked a few times, as if the sound of his name plucked him out from another dimension of thoughts. “It was… It was very dark.”

“The servants don't change the candles after midnight.” The other guard - Emil Nekola - added. “The attack must have taken place after the lights died out. It's a moonless night, too; no one would have been able to see clearly at that time.”

“Forgive me for saying this,” Minako said, her words sour and her burned jaw tightening with dismay. “But your Majesty, you like to forget the fact that Yuuri is a _concubine_ in your harem. These things are deemed to happen. It never happened before because you have never given anyone special attention. I _warned_ you about this.”

The Tsar did not retaliate, only chose to dart his eyes dangerously toward the two guards, as if their presence was a mere nuisance to him.

The men stiffened at the scrutiny, and that look alone was enough for them to understand whatever he silently commanded. They began heading toward the door instantly after an echo of the Tsar’s honorifics.

Minako nodded “I shall escort Yuuri to the infirmary myself-"

 _“He's staying here!"_ the Tsar finally snapped, making all the other five people in the room jump by the angry tone of his voice alone.

Yuuri swallowed a heavy bile in his throat, clutching his hands tightly against his thighs, fearful of raising his head. Amidst all the haze and confusion, he did not take time to notice his surroundings or tried to pinpoint where he was exactly. Yuuri dwelt more on _why_ Michele, his attacker, was the one who had crossed such a long distance with Yuuri on his shoulder, only to bring him to the man that could end both of their lives, rather than _where_ he had taken him.

One careful look around the room, and Yuuri had to hold back a whimper.

He was, once again, in the Tsar’s private quarters. In his bedroom. And he was sitting on a chair that was attached to the wall at the right side of the room.

And next to him, he knew too well, leaning on the same wall, neglected, mysterious, and sinister, was the wretched black and white painting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 A soft _clack_ forced Yuuri’s eyelids to twitch.

His consciousness fought against his state of oblivion, both sides engaging in an unmerciful battle, paying him no mind as Yuuri was juggled between the two, rapidly and without care.

He was only waiting for it to end, helpless and resigned, until one of them was finally victorious.

Yuuri snapped his eye open and noticed that the lights had gone fainter, the room quieter, and his pain duller; almost gone completely. The only thing he could feel was the numbness from the bag of ice that rested between his lid and the bandages.

The sheets were so soft, the mattress so comfortable and accommodating his form in such a perfect fit that it seemed like it was begging him to return to his previous slumber.

Until he heard that voice again, caressing the syllables of his name gently, carefully, forcing his awareness to reach its peak without falter.

The mattress dipped down from an additional weight, and Yuuri did not dare to look up and face the Tsar.

“You're awake.” He whispered, keeping his voice low, like he was not certain of his own statement. At the same time, he was raising his hand with caution to reach toward Yuuri’s side.

Yuuri squeezed his eye shut, turning his head away. Even in his powerless state, he ran away, even from something as trivial as a single touch.

The contact never happened, however, and the Tsar’s hand had returned to its place.

“I know what you're thinking.” The man sighed, “I couldn't protect you. Is that what you want to hear? An Emperor of a great nation admitting that he couldn’t keep a single man safe?”

Yuuri’s eye widened at the ludicrousness of it all. The Tsar, saying such things to him. The Tsar, wanting to protect him. The Tsar, thinking that Yuuri was vain enough to even _consider_ that line of thoughts.

 _This is a dream,_ Yuuri thought, finally allowing himself to look at his owner, who was sitting at the side of the bed and facing away from him. _This is a damn dream._

“I can, however, guarantee that the culprit will be brought to justice.” The Tsar continued, determined. “Half of my guards are looking for him. It won't take much longer.”

 _But I don't want him to be brought to justice._ Yuuri thought desperately.

“You won't be violated ever again, Yuuri.” He turned to him, a lethal glint in his eyes. “I promise you this with my honor.”

Yuuri wanted to laugh hysterically.

Violations. Honor. Promises. When did they matter? Not once. Not ever.

The Tsar was on his feet, crossing the room with quick strides as he spoke. “It's good that you had woken up.” He stopped in front of the large shelves near the wall. “Celestino said that it's not safe for you to sleep through the night.”

Yuuri merely blinked, still convinced that this version of the emperor was a product of his imagination.

The Tsar grabbed the spine of a book at the far end of the top shelf, giving it one sharp, hesitant look before heading back to the bed.

“Celestino gave you some very strong painkillers. But I need to keep you awake for a few more hours, at least.” He sat next to Yuuri’s legs, “So let me-”

The Tsar clipped his lips together in silence when his gaze landed on Yuuri’s outstretched hand.

Yuuri did not understand why the Tsar seemed so shocked. That was what he wanted, wasn't it? Yuuri couldn't dance or move, but he could read for him. It was the least he could do to entertain his owner with the current inconvenience.

Silently, the Tsar handed him the book and didn't take his eyes off of Yuuri as he opened its leaves with numb hands.

The book opened by itself in half, and resting between two wilted pages, was a single rose that was dried up to a point where its petals crumbled at the exposure. It must have been scarlet red at some point, Yuuri noted, looking at the mixture of dirty browns that it was currently layered with.

A part of Yuuri wondered, almost too curiously, who it was that gave the Tsar that rose, for it must have been very important to him. He had kept it hidden so carefully, tucked somewhere that no one else could find it, where no one else could touch it.

Yuuri wondered if it was a past lover, someone who had the Tsar’s heart in their hands at some point in his life, for the man must have lived countless of passionate romances before.

Or perhaps it belonged to someone much more important, someone who had a bigger role in his life. Maybe a mother who had gone ahead of her time, or a father who had neglected his son for decades.

Yuuri calmly turned the book to the side and opened the first page, not showing any further interest in it so the man wouldn't think that he was meddling with private matters that did not concern him.

However, it was snatched away from him in a blink of an eye.

Gulping, Yuuri glanced at a very irritated looking Tsar, who had plucked the rose out quickly, only stopped to give it one irritated look, then tossed it on the nightstand before giving the book back.

“I've tried to get rid of this rose many times before.” The Tsar confessed, like he was telling Yuuri a filthy secret. “But I enjoy the pain, it seems.”

Without thinking, Yuuri asked: “Pain?”

The Tsar raised his head, as if he was surprised to hear Yuuri’s voice. “Yes,” he whispered. “Pain.”

He wondered, almost surprising himself by such strange interest, if the Tsar will ever tell Yuuri the story behind it. For Yuuri wanted to know who was it that hurt a man like the Tsar, who had left such an impact on someone who seemed so invincible.

 _‘Who do you think you are?’_ Bianca laughed at his arrogance, _‘You are no one! You are worthless!’_

Yuuri surrendered to her, like he always did, and ignored his newly formed headache as he squinted at the small French letters.

“You need your spectacles, don’t you?” the Tsar’s tone almost, _almost_ made him believe that he was actually concerned. But no; he was only going to point out that Yuuri couldn’t put them on while his head was wrapped with so many bandages. He was only going to point out how useless Yuuri truly was. “If you do then-”

“No.” Yuuri lied, afraid of hearing what he would say next. “No, I don’t.”

“You’re nearsighted, then?” the man furrowed his eyebrows. “Well, as long as it’s not a bother – Ah, speaking of which… It was most fortunate that they did not break.”

 _Why?_ Yuuri wondered, not trusting himself to voice his question aloud as he watched the Tsar reaching out for the nightstand. _Because it was too precious of a gift for someone like myself? Because breaking them would have been careless and ungrateful of me? Because you would have-_

“Yuuri,” the Tsar lowered his voice, narrowing his eyes as he held the eyeglasses in front of him. “If the lenses broke while you were wearing them, god forbid, you could have turned half blind.”

Yuuri only stared at him in utter bewilderment.

 _A dream_ _._ He chanted. _It’s definitely a dream._

The Tsar folded the spectacles and put them away, the action allowing Yuuri to see how the muscles of his shoulders rippled under the soft fabric of his tunic. The Tsar glanced at him, then suddenly and without warning; he unleashed a gentle smile that made Yuuri feel more sedated than the medications had made him.

“The thought is very unpleasant, indeed.” The man said, as if he had _any_ idea on what was circulating in Yuuri’s mind.

Yuuri gave him a firm shake of his head. In all honesty, going half blind did not seem too bad. Perhaps if one of them was deformed, people would then stop noticing how strange his eyes were, like how they always overlooked Minako’s and only found Yuuri’s peculiar.

He secured the neglected book steadily on his lap, in an angle where the candle light could reach it the most, and began reading _‘La Chute du Prince Charmant’_ as lucidly as he could muster _._

Yuuri didn't know when, exactly, he had allowed his eyelid to close and his back to rest against the feathery pillows. He did not know how long he sat there, reading and reading until his throat felt dry, then read some more, afraid that he shouldn't stop even when he wanted to.

All he knew was that the Tsar watched him the whole time, for hours at the very least, without looking away for even a second, without letting that gentle smile drop from his face, a smile that Yuuri had only seen fixed his way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 He found himself sitting on the corner of the Tsar’s bed early the next morning, the memories of the night before still feeling like a complete and utter dream. The only thing that managed to convince him otherwise was the pain in his head, the continuous throbbing that did not seem to cease since the sedatives had worn off.

Though, Yuuri assumed, the young man in front of him that was tending to his wound would’ve been a more convincing element.

Phichit was talking animatedly, almost never pausing to take a breath as he changed Yuuri’s bandages with skillful hands. Yuuri was certain that no room would ever be soundless with the presence of that lively noble, and he was thankful for it.

“I must say,” Phichit said with a sly smile, “I’ve been living in this palace for years and this is the first time I’ve seen the Tsar’s quarters. It’s ten times as big as mine, and so very _warm.”_

Yuuri looked around the room, his gaze lingering in the darkest areas where the sun did not reach, fearing that the man would appear from the shadows at any given moment. “Do you know where he is?”

“Well, I'm not too sure... the Tsar travels around Russia so often it's hard to keep track. But, Ciao Ciao mentioned something about a trip to Moscow, I think." Phichit informed, rubbing the ball of his thumb against the skin under Yuuri’s eye with an ointment. “They left at dawn. Though, his Majesty almost made Ciao Ciao stay behind.”

“Why would he do that?” Yuuri asked, curious as to why an emperor would travel anywhere without his Grand Doctor in tow. Furthermore, he wondered why that man had bothered to stay awake the whole night, knowing that he had a tiring trip ahead of him. The Tsar did not even touch the bed, Yuuri knew. He must’ve not gotten a minute of rest if the party did leave that early.

And that… that is very concerning for a ruler of a nation, isn’t it?

Phichit grinned. “I heard that his precious needed medical attention, and his Majesty was reluctant to leave them under anyone else’s hands.”

Yuuri frowned. “Who?”

Phichit’s smile dropped dramatically. “You’re surely jesting…”

His frown turned into a glare. “I’m _not_ his precious.”

“Yuuri,” Phichit said in disbelief, his thumb stopping its movements. “Yuuri, your attacker is being sought out by every remaining guard in this castle.  Do you think his Majesty would do that for just anyone?”

“It’s against the law to attack a concubine.” Yuuri didn’t know whether he was trying to convince Phichit, or himself. “A concubine is a property of the Tsar… attacking one is more degrading to him than anyone else.”

“A law?” Phichit’s lips curled in amusement. “A law that’s almost always overlooked? Yuuri, do you know how many other concubines had been assaulted during his reign? _Countless_ of them. And do you know how many he actually punished so severely for it?”

Yuuri feared the answer. He was starting to imagine a cemetery filled with dead corpses until Phichit quickly answered his own question.

“None.” He said with emphasis, “Well, that’s assuming that the last death sentence wasn’t because of you, which I know it is. And if so, then one.”

Yuuri was about to tell him to stop bluffing when the door of the bedroom opened with a creak, revealing a mass of disheveled brown hair that belonged to a man who, at first glance, looked completely miserable.

Whatever calmness and assurance Phichit had given him, Michele had managed to absorb it all, inviting his fears and anxiety to take their place almost instantly.

 _He’s going to finish what he started, isn’t he?_ Yuuri thought, his heartbeat escalating. _No one would want to leave a witness to their crime, not when so many people are ready to catch him._

Michele’s golden armor was replaced with a silver one, Yuuri noted, hoping with everything he had that the Tsar didn’t actually take away his position as a royal guard; Michele would resent him even more because it. And Yuuri honestly didn’t think that it was worth it to take away so much from him for that trivial of a reason.

“What is it?” Phichit asked with a casual tone, his hands carefully cleaning the collected fluids around Yuuri’s ruined eye.

“Sir,” to his utter shock, Michele wasn’t addressing Phichit – who deserved the title for his high status. No, Michele, with his clenched jaw and reluctant violet eyes, was talking to _Yuuri._ “By his Majesty’s orders, I shall be your guard starting from today.”

Yuuri didn’t know how long had passed, his disbelief so overwhelming that it was unclear whether it was slowing down everything around him, or making everything speed up. He wasn’t sure.

Michele waited for a response, which he did not receive. Phichit’s playful expression – as if he was silently telling Yuuri he was right – was starting to turn into obvious concern.

He didn’t know what possessed the Tsar to do that; to choose his own attacker out of every other man in this whole castle, in this whole empire, to keep Yuuri safe.

Yuuri wasn't a noble anymore, he was a slave, and slaves didn’t have guards, _shouldn’t_ have guards. Not even Minako had guards unless she went somewhere out of the palace. Phichit had a guard with him occasionally. Celestino had two outside his quarters. Yurio had half a dozen that he always escaped from. And the Tsar himself, of course, had almost too many to count. But no concubine ever had one, why would a concubine even _need_ one?

Were the gods practicing a cruel joke? Was Michele coming up with an excuse to get Yuuri alone so he could finally end his life and cleanse himself from all the remaining evidence of his act? Or did the Tsar know that it was Michele who attacked him and found the whole situation amusing?

For some reason, even Yuuri didn’t believe the last of his thoughts; not with what his Majesty had told him that night, and not when he remained awake despite having a long trip the next morning, just to follow Cialdini’s instructions. And not when the man seemed willing to kill the culprit with his own hands.

Yuuri knew almost nothing about Victor Nikiforov, but the one concrete fact he was sure of, was that the man wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt Yuuri. Anyone but himself, at least.

But why? Why did the universe enjoy being so ironically cruel when Yuuri only wanted to be left alone to suffer from his own sins?

He didn’t notice when Phichit finished wrapping a fresh bandage securely on Yuuri’s head, replaced the tiny bag of melted ice that Cialdini applied prior with a new one, and was already collecting his things and speaking to Michele with an authoritative tone.

“… Keep a very careful eye on him. God knows this man needs protection-”

 _“Phichit-kun.”_ Yuuri pleaded.

“Am I wrong?” Phichit blinked at him, “You get attacked almost _every day._ Do you think I don’t see you spending more time in the infirmary than even myself and the nursemaidens? This needs to stop.”

 _It won’t stop._ Yuuri thought, glancing at Michele and feeling anything but safe and protected. _It will never stop._

The Tsar was a liar like all the rest of them, he concluded later that day when Michele and Phichit had left him alone.

He had _promised_ him, but even a Tsar’s honor wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough to withhold against _Aki,_ and all the misfortunes that she had condemned him with.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It was later that night when Yuuri, for the first time since he moved to the second floor of the harem, stood in front of the small dresser in his room to actually examine himself.

He hated any form of mirrors. He hated seeing his own reflection. He hated the reminder that no matter how hard he tried to seem transparent and disappear out of everyone sight, his features managed to prove themselves as his greatest enemy and prevent him from doing so.

He looked like a wreckage; an aftermath. Half of his head was concealed with dirty bandages, making him look like the deformed monster he truly was; like a creature who was an offence to people’s eyes.

He wrapped his neck with the thickest scarf he owned, donned the coat with the highest collar, and covered his head with the most unflattering headwear he could find, all to hide his pathetic state; his ever present weakness that was now in display for everyone to see if they took a careful look.

The Tsar’s white handkerchief lay abandoned and untouched on the corner of the dresser, shining more brightly than even the candle that rested right next to it, demanding attention. The tiny letters knitted on its edge, reading **_V. III. N,_ ** were almost glowing.

With a heavy sigh, Yuuri ignored it and exited his room, hearing faint footsteps that quickly faded away once he emerged.

He saw a glimpse of Bianca’s chestnut hair before she shut the door of her own room across the hallway. Yuuri wondered if she had seen his appearance, if she had smiled and laughed in satisfaction, or if she was trying to come up with new ways to degrade him.

Yuuri would wait for her, for he was always waiting for that addictive venom to be injected into his veins.

He descended the stairs carefully, trying to keep his feet steady instead of focusing all of his energy on the waves of pain that stroke his head in random intervals. He had refused to take any more sedatives from Phichit, because it was already humiliating enough to appear that physically vulnerable in front of the Tsar and his guards. He didn’t want the rest of castle to see it, especially the members of the harem.

The members of the harem that Yuuri escaped from as fast as he could once he reached the first floor, ignoring all of their whispers that must’ve not stopped since the news of the attack was made public.

They must have been laughing with themselves, cheering that he deserved it, that it was waiting to happen to him sooner or later, and that his attacker should have done far more than just give him a black eye and a head concussion.

Yuuri did not hear any of their whispers, for his thoughts were much louder. He did not hear the terror in their voices, their prayers to god, or the heightened fear for their own lives.

As he suspected, the moment Yuuri was out of the harem and into the cold hallways of the castle, Michele had followed his every trail. The clacking of the metal of his sword against his armor was sending shivers down Yuuri’s spine each time it came too close.

He could almost _feel_ the resentment radiating off of him, all directed to where Yuuri was walking in front of him.

Having Michele so close to him terrified anyone who passed by Yuuri. It was as if he had a beast following his track, ready to tear apart any daring individual that crossed its path, but Yuuri knew that he could also be one of those individuals. Yuuri might even be the _only_ one that he was ready to tear apart, given the chance.

Thus, he stayed alerted, so alerted it was utterly exhausting, physically and mentally.

He only wished for it to end, for things to go back to the way they used to be when he was a clueless, young boy who was unable to see the blood on Mari’s hands.

But it never went back to the way it was. Life was progressing, and Yuuri tried to ride on that carriage. No matter how many times they kicked him out of it and into the road, only for him to run again and jump his way back, sustaining more and more injuries each time.

Eventually, Yuuri had enough of people giving him odd looks and walking in the opposite direction, away from him, whereas they would have normally stopped and requested Yuuri’s help enthusiastically.

They didn’t know who he truly was; no one knew who he was outside of the harem walls. Yet, Michele was slowly starting to ruin that careful cover that he and Minako had worked so hard to create.

And Yuuri wouldn’t let him take that away, not so soon.

Taking a deep breath, Yuuri stopped on his heels and turned around to see Michele merely two feet behind him. The sudden movement surprised him, causing the man to halt his movements and stare at Yuuri with narrowed eyes. His chin was raised in anticipation, his lips pressing together as if there were heavy words on the tip of his tongue that were waiting to be voiced.

With an expression that revealed nothing, Yuuri slid his index finger through his scarf and pulled it away from his mouth, parting his lips to puff warm air into the chill of his surroundings. Michele gulped when Yuuri’s eye connected with both of his, though, Yuuri didn’t understand why the guard tensed so visibly.

“I should have told you this earlier today,” Yuuri started, his voice as curt as he wished it would sound. “But I want you to know that-”

_“Please-”_

“- I’m very sorry for disrespecting Sara.” Yuuri frowned. The two had spoken at the same time and he wasn’t focused enough to hear what Michele had said while interrupting him. Michele, however, didn’t repeat or continue, so Yuuri overlooked it. “It was unconsciously done, but I should have considered the consequences of my actions. It will never happen again; I’m not that sort of man.”

Michele’s eyes went impossibly wide at the practiced apology. Yuuri was certain that the guard did not believe a word that he had said. He was probably going to start laughing because a male _concubine_ had just told him that he wouldn’t sexually provoke his handler again, or any other individual, for that matter.

Because that’s what Yuuri was supposed to do in his every waking minute, wasn’t it? Sexually provoke any creature that showed the slightest interest.

But he wasn’t, god knows he wasn’t. Every word Yuuri had said was genuine. The memory of how he had dissed Sara on their first session still lingered in his mind and repulsed him.

Michele still did not respond and wasn’t laughing yet, so Yuuri went on.

“I know I deserved it, so I won’t allow you to be punished like that.” He brought the scarf over his mouth again, “And please don’t walk so closely to me. I don’t want people to know that you’re my guard;” Yuuri then turned with a heavy heart, hoping Michele did not notice how his hand was trembling, and continued his way. “It makes me more anxious than safe.”

Michele did not move for several moments, and Yuuri thought that he might have heard the man release a loud, shaky breath before he started moving again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Almost a week had passed by and things went back to their relative normalcy.

Yuuri did not need to put iced bandages around his eye any longer, and was finally able to wear his eyeglasses again. The nasty transition of colors on his injured skin; starting from black, then to blue, crimson, then green, was starting to return to its formal pale shade. And Yuuri was thankful for that, because at last, he was able to breathe with less layers of coverage, and was allowed to resume the chores that managed to put his mind at ease.

That day – the day Yuuri started his normal tasks again – he made sure to finish his work quickly and efficiently before heading to the grand library once again. Michele was still following his every move, but was watching him from a far enough distance so that people would not notice his presence.

Michele was very dutiful, Yuuri had to admit. So far he hadn’t been cornered even once, for the guard seemed to always sense any sort of tension and appeared by his side in a blink, surrounding them both with a threatening aura that managed to cast away aggressive concubines like a spell.

Yuuri found that that made him indebted, somehow. At least, his tasks weren’t delayed due to such inconveniences anymore, and Phichit didn’t need to scold him for going to the infirmary so often.

Almost every night since he had been hit, Yuuri found more time to stay in the grand library, but for purely selfish reasons that had nothing to do with Minako or any other castle resident.

Michele was sitting in the same chair he always sat on while watching Yuuri, which was making him feel more nervous by the day, since he hasn’t seen the man touch a single book the entire week. He must have been fed up with such a boring task, watching a man read for hours to no end, and Yuuri did not blame him. Neither of them had asked for this, neither of them even wanted this. Yet at the same time, Yuuri did not care enough to entertain him, and Michele’s hate toward him was still apparent.

Nevertheless, Yuuri went back to the same aisle that he was frequenting lately, an aisle that was certainly given more attention and care compared to the others. He stopped in front of the newest section, yet the largest, and picked the remaining and only collection of scrolls he hadn’t touched yet.

Yuuri made his way to the nearest chair, opened the first scroll carefully, and engrossed himself in any new information he could find about his owner.

The Tsar was rumored to come back in a few days’ time, and Yuuri was almost finished with learning all he could about his life, everything that was available for public viewing.

Yuuri was more immersed than he could have ever predicted, especially regarding such a dangerous domain. But the moment he started with the first book in Tsar Victor’s section, he couldn’t stop. Every piece of writing revealed stranger content than the one before it.

At some point, Yuuri came to doubt half of what he had been reading, because the ones who wrote the Tsar’s achievements spoke about a living legend, not a young, twenty four year old, bad tempered emperor.

The Tsar was the nephew of the ruler before him, not his son. The previous emperor had three wives and bedded countless female concubines without having impregnated a single one of them. The former emperor had denied being impotent on several occasions, yet even the ones who wrote that part of his personal life did not seem to believe him. Thus, the throne was passed down to Victor the Third, who was merely sixteen when his uncle passed away.

His uncle was not only terrible with his wives and harem – whom all described him as a cruel man – but he had also left the nation facing both civil war, and tension between neighboring nations. All rested on his nephew’s shoulders at his young age.

Regardless, during his first two years of ruling Russia, the nation had managed to conclude the war and the number of losses was described as miraculously low, considering the massive size of the two radical groups that engaged in battle. Russia had already fallen in love with her Tsar by then.

The next period of his reign, which came as the biggest surprise to Yuuri, was called the golden years of the nation, and it was said that Russia had prospered more rapidly in five years than it had in decades.

Foreign relations were strengthened, poverty was reduced, architecture was on its way to an impressive development, the Faith in Russia lost most of its influence, and not a single citizen denied their love and respect for their Tsar.

Learning all that in only a couple of nights, Yuuri couldn’t help but feel amazed, despite himself. If his relationship with the Tsar wasn’t so personal and hazardous, he would have started to admire him.

So little was known of his personal life, however. And all what was allowed to be revealed was that the Tsar’s harem was established on his eighteenth birthday, the only imperial harem that had such a large ratio of men. Royal concubines were preferred to be female, but that wasn’t the case there.

The things that Minako had told Yuuri regarding his unwillingness to father children were not mentioned at all, understandably so. What _was_ mentioned, on the other hand, was how effective his regimen regarding his harem was.

They talked of the horrors that most concubines had caused each other during the reign of previous rulers. There were reports of concubines poisoning pregnant lovers and forcing them to miscarry, others that wounded themselves then framed innocents of the act, and some who drugged and raped each other. Lots of them influenced other castle residents to ridicule their rivals, in more obscene and disgusting ways than Bianca would ever dare to, even going as far as having lots of them murdered. It did not stop there, because notably, half a dozen had even killed the children of their nemesis so that their own would claim the throne.

Victor Nikiforov’s harem, however, had not faced a single one of the mentioned issues since he had been crowned. He had never selected any of his concubines twice, made sure to not keep chosen ones in the harem for too long, had never made any woman pregnant, and did not forgive any harsh ridicule that came to his notice.

Phichit’s words did not sound like exaggerations anymore, because Yuuri kept looking for concubines that had been punished by death, and found _none._ The most severe punishment prior to the woman who attacked Yuuri was _exile._

 _“That’s_ what you do?” Yuuri jumped the moment he heard Michele’s voice addressing him all of a sudden. “Every single day?”

Yuuri looked up from the last scroll he was reading, folding it cautiously in place. He didn’t know what Michele was expecting of him. Did he think that he spent his days practicing witchcraft and seducing people left and right? Yuuri wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

“More or less.” He answered aloofly, still feeling apprehensive around that particular man. It was the first time that the two exchanged words since his apology, and Yuuri wished it would be the last.

He gathered all the writings in his hands and noticed that the place was deserted, save for him, Michele, and the librarian who stayed there very late. He walked by the table where his guard was sitting, his expression laced with confusion and uncertainty.

It was the first time Michele had seen him work around the castle normally, and Yuuri assumed that he was agitated due to how abnormal his behavior was.

The other concubines, after all, almost never left the walls of the harem, where it was always warm, where food was always served on time, where they did not need to lift a finger, and only spent their time taking care of their physical attributes, learning romantic poems and songs, and practicing seductive dances, as they should.

Yuuri didn’t dwell on that, nor did he give Michele any other chance to question him as he gathered his bearings and called it a day.

The last of his discoveries lingered in his mind, and all that he could do was try to convince himself that his case wasn’t special; it was only odd, that’s all it was.

Yet, in the grand scheme of things, there weren’t so many differences between the two words, were there?

 

 

* * *

 

 

He chose a plain outfit.

A boring gray tunic and even duller trousers made up the garment that Yuuri wore that night, their size still a tad bit too small, their cuts still overly feminine, but plain all the same compared to the dazzling dresses and ensembles the rest would certainly wear.

He ran a hand through his hair, moving it aggressively against his scalp until it turned into a mess. He wore his eyeglasses and did not bother to worry about the slight greenness that still dressed the skin around his eye.

It might have only been his imagination, but the crowds that were all heading to the entrance of the harem seemed to unconsciously pull apart as Yuuri walked by.

He hadn’t had a blink of sleep the night prior, his destructive thoughts never muting, never failing to supply him with potential outcomes that were horrifying to even consider. But they made sense. Whatever would happen this time, it would be the final nail on the coffin, the resultant of what he had done the last time he was chosen for the Taking, and the final concrete answer to most of the questions that ran in his mind without rest.

 _You will never be chosen again,_ a voice inside his head said. _You are not worthy enough. You are going to become a whore and no one will even consider your purity anymore._

 _But he didn’t take you the last time,_ another voice disagreed. _He won’t leave you alone until he does. He won’t leave you alone until he teaches you a lesson._

He didn’t know which one of those possibilities was worse.

He picked the farthest corner of the harem entrance, and felt his heart sinking down his torso when he heard the royal horn of the Taking.

Bianca – who was once again standing next to Yuuri – turned toward him then instantly away before the Tsar entered. In all of the four months he’s gotten to know that woman, he had never been more clueless on what the expression on her face was supposed to mean.

They were all bowing by the time Yuuri heard the same echo of footsteps around them, which paused for a couple moments before moving again, their sound getting louder and louder the closer they became.

He saw a pair of boots in his limited vision the moment the echo halted, filling the entire space with eerie silence once again. All he could see was tight, black leather trousers, and all he could hear was a soft sigh.

“Yuuri.”

Instead of focusing on what this whole encounter signified for him and every other member of the harem, Yuuri found that he was more curious as to why the Tsar stretched the first syllable of his name in such exaggerated manner, voicing it in a way that no one else ever did, as if he was claiming his name and reshaping it in a way that suited his tongue alone.

He felt a hand pressing on his back. Bianca’s sudden touch returned Yuuri to the present and made him realize that his Majesty did not raise his chin with his fingers like the last time.

Gulping, Yuuri lifted his head to see that the Tsar was searching in the pocket of his trousers, slowly producing another handkerchief that was identical to the one that still rested on Yuuri’s dresser. The Tsar smiled brightly, blindingly, before putting the handkerchief in Yuuri’s hand. Though, this time, he did not touch him directly while doing so.

It was as if he was being careful not to.

“I will be waiting for you.” The Tsar said, lowering his voice so only Yuuri could hear. Though, the sound of the sharp, dismayed intake of breath that came from his right proved that Bianca did as well. He wasn’t aware that she understood French.

Yuuri watched him leave, staring at the man’s back and noticing the black undercoat and brown vest he was wearing. It only took a few seconds for disbelief to slowly start overflowing his mind in heavy doses.

It was a couple of minutes after the Tsar disappeared, when Yuuri heard a woman wailing as loud as she could.

People were throwing vile words his way, as expected, cursing him in rage and distaste, their hatred reaching its very peak.

They didn’t know, however, not them, not Yuuri, that this was only the beginning.

He didn’t know what possessed him to do so, but Yuuri broadened his shoulders, straightened his back, and gave them the widest, _darkest_ smile that he was capable of giving.

His life was slowly falling apart, all the deities he prayed for had forsaken him, and the ghost of _Aki_ was sneering sinisterly behind Yuuri, satisfied by his misery. But at the very least, the people who were consistently turning his life into a living hell were suffering, as he once hoped they would. It was a slight consolation, and Yuuri took a wicked pleasure from it.

Needless to say, they quieted after seeing that.

Yuuri made sure he was out of everyone’s sight when he finally allowed that smile to drop and the pained expression to take over his face; where it belonged.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t only Yuuri and the other concubines that were shocked senseless of what had taken place.

After they had taken him back to the dressing room, the handmaidens did nothing but stare at him in wonder, as if they did not have a single clue on how to proceed.

Eventually, they recovered from the shock and drew him a warm bath, doing exactly as they did the last time he was under their hands.

At least, they did not remove any of his hairs like they previously did; none of it had even grown back.

The scalding hot water burned his skin, the smell of perfumes and ointments suffocated him, and his hand was numb by the time he finished opening himself up thoroughly.

Not knowing what else to do, Sara had dressed him with the same white gown he wore the last time, explaining to Yuuri that it was a ritual. But none of them knew he was still a virgin, so what was the purpose of it all?

“I see that you are now acquainted with my twin brother.” Sara told him, smiling. Again, she was trying her hardest to steer his mind away from his darkest thoughts. “I’m the pretty one. Michele’s the imbecile.” She sighed, clueless. “You must’ve realized that by now, anyway.”

Yuuri didn’t think she wanted to know exactly how he did.

She was decorating him like a toy, setting him with a fresh set of golden jewelry, covering the remaining of his hideous injury with makeup, brushing his hair until it looked like a tiny waterfall, letting it fall around his face this time instead of pulling it back.

“You’re beautiful either way,” she said, “So let’s try to make you look a bit different tonight.”

 _I_ ** _am_** _different_ , he thought, ignoring the first part of what she said. _I’ll always be different._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri didn’t know what he was expecting when he entered the Tsar’s bedroom yet again, but he certainly did not think he would find him on the bed, lying with his dog obediently sitting by his side.

“Here you are.” The Tsar looked up, his fingers running through the fur on the poodle’s back in gentle strokes. “Come, let’s finish what we started.”

Yuuri stilled, his eyes almost popping out of his skull at the command. The presence of his pet almost assured him that nothing obscene would take place.

The Tsar raised an eyebrow, noticing Yuuri’s sudden reaction to his words. His hand pulled away from Makkachin, who whined lowly at the absence of his touch, and instead reached out for the book that was lying on the nightstand.

“Don’t you want to know what happened to the prince?” the Tsar asked, his tone light and playful. “I’m almost overwhelmed with curiosity.”

Yuuri merely froze, his mind a muddle of suspicions, doubts, and incredulity. The Tsar kept staring at him, his posture not changing, yet his blue eyes losing their shine the more he waited for a response, a response that was taking its time due to Yuuri’s astonishment regarding the whole thing.

All of a sudden, Makkachin straightened herself from her resting position, jumping swiftly out of the gigantic bed and pawing her way toward Yuuri.

Yuuri’s eyes slowly drifted down to see her circling him, sniffing at his garment ever so often, as if she was processing his scent. A few moments later, he heard an enthusiastic bark and Makkachin’s front paws were on his torso, her tail wagging back and forth as she looked up at Yuuri with a pair of round, charming black eyes.

She was impossible to resist, Yuuri decided, even though he had no clue what she wanted from him, but whatever it was, he’d give it to her.

“You have met the love of my life before, haven’t you?” the Tsar spoke up, shooting another gentle smile their way.

It was the first time he talked to him in Russian, Yuuri noted, nodding to the question even though the Tsar wasn’t looking at him anymore.

It took a second after calling her for Makkachin to return to where she was laying before. The Tsar’s hand returned to stroking his pet lovingly, as if nothing and no one else in the world mattered more. “Such a brave girl, protecting Yuuri better than my own inadequate guards. I bet you’ll put Crispino to shame if we knighted you.”

The conversation was so painfully endearing that Yuuri was conflicted, suddenly doubting every single thing he knew about the man; the man who had killed two people in four months and was eagerly waiting to kill the third.

“Why are you still standing there?” the Tsar looked up at him, switching back to French. “I still want to know what happened to the prince.”

Obediently, Yuuri crossed the front of the room, standing at the foot of the bed and feeling helplessly clueless. He looked like a fool, he knew that, but the Tsar’s actions were not making any sense and he had never been instructed on what to do in these sorts of situations.

“Well, go on,” the Tsar curled his leg toward himself, making room for Yuuri. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ve been dying to found out about what Paulo did next.”

“Pierre.”

The Tsar blinked in surprise, “Yes?”

“The prince.” Yuuri explained, sitting as far as he could from where his owner was, grabbing the familiar book carefully. “His name is Pierre.”

“Oh, was it?” he could hear the smile in the man’s voice. “Tell me what Pierre did next, _Yuu-ri_.” Once again, he played with the pronunciation of Yuuri’s name as it was the most interesting activity to him.

To Yuuri’s surprise, the page he reached the last time was marked with a thick sheet of paper. He carefully slid it out of place, noticing the absence of the red rose, and began reading more coherently than his drugged self did the last time.

Now that he was more aware of what was happening around him, of whose presence he was surrounded by, and of the eyes that were once again digging holes into the side of his head, Yuuri found his hands sweating and shaking in nervousness. The tone of his voice changed noticeably every time he thought he wasn’t reading well enough, only for it to sound even worse each time.

Was he reading too slowly, or was he too fast? Did his accent make anything sound comprehensible? Was he even pronouncing the words right? Did the Tsar hate that he didn’t change his voice when he entered a dialogue? Did he want him to be louder? Or did he want him to be quieter?

“You look radiant tonight. Did I tell you that?”

Yuuri paused, his head ducking down from the lack of knowing what else to do, his cheeks reddening by their own accord. Admittedly, people didn’t compliment him all of a sudden like that. How was he supposed to respond?

“T-thank you.”

“Tell me,” the Tsar was suddenly a lot closer to him than he was before. The proximity forced Yuuri to hold a heavy breath in fear. “Is Michele doing his job like he’s supposed to? Just say the word, and I’ll replace him.”

Yuuri shook his head instantly, not wanting to provoke him to make things even worse.

After a few uncomfortable moments, Yuuri took the silence as a signal to continue.

He wasn’t even halfway done through the first paragraph when the Tsar spoke again, this time leaning in even closer, making the hairs on the back of Yuuri’s neck stand on their ends.

“You should have stayed here when I was away.” The man lowered his voice, “For a few nights, at least. It would have been more comfortable for you.”

It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t say anything back. Yuuri only stared at the letters in front of him, as if asking them to provide a solid explanation as to what the hell was happening.

Objectively, they didn’t get a lot of reading done that night. The Tsar was very talkative, much to Yuuri’s surprise, even though the conversation was entirely one sided. The man interrupted him so often that Yuuri got accustomed to the cue on when to pause or when to resume reading.

He knew that even Makkachin was more responsive when the Tsar talked to her, but Yuuri couldn’t stop himself from thinking that the man didn’t want his opinion from the first place. Because what would Yuuri even say that would be of any interest?

But what _did_ he want? The more Yuuri looked at it, the more he saw it as a game the man liked to play; riling him up every two minutes, and enjoying how his terror showed so pathetically every time.

Yuuri had bowed respectfully, and was starting to walk toward the door in absolute relief when he heard his name coming from that mouth again. He turned around, finally allowing himself to look at the Tsar in the eye.

The Tsar had dismissed him only a few moments before, thus Yuuri was clueless as to why he called him again so quickly.

“I still want to know how the story will progress.” Those blue eyes were strident, as if they were challenging Yuuri to keep staring at them. “Will you promise me that we’ll continue this next time?”

“I promise.” Yuuri said, instantly obeying the command. Because that’s what the word of a Tsar meant, didn’t it? He wasn’t in place to refuse anything he said or suggested.

His Majesty sighed before standing up, careful to not disturb the sleeping Makkachin by his side. Before he could blink, the Tsar was standing in front of him, his height once again intimidating Yuuri.

He looked up, keeping their gazes locked, his hands shaking in anticipation.

“I will look forward to it. Most eagerly.” He whispered in the softest voice, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from Yuuri’s eyes. The action reminded him of an old dream he once had, of someone doing the exact same so long ago in a dark, empty infirmary. Yuuri didn’t notice that he had flinched back, but the sudden stillness of the man’s hand told him that he did. The Tsar smiled the same gentle smile once again. But looking at it so closely now, Yuuri did not understand how he had missed the evident sadness that was lacing its corners. “Goodnight, Yuuri.”

Yuuri breathed out, hurriedly heading toward the door, more clueless than he was when he first entered it from the other side. “Goodnight, your Majesty.”

At the corner of his eyes, Yuuri caught a flash of a familiar black and white portrait, calling him with a mystic sound, beckoning him near and begging for his attention.

Somehow, he collected enough will to _finally_ take one good look at that painting.

He wished he hadn’t.

Yuuri exited the Tsar’s bedroom, horrified out of his mind, every nerve in his being pulsing with complete and utter fright.

It was him. It was a painting of _him._ It was a painting of a naked Yuuri that looked nothing short of the witch everyone described him as.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Although Yuuri was the one who promised to come back, the Tsar was the one who fulfilled it.

The next fortnight when the Tsar chose him again, Bianca was not present all together, which worried him immensely regarding what she was planning to do behind his back.

The Tsar didn’t touch him that time either, neither did he say anything other than his name; loud, as ever, so not a single person present could miss it.

Everything else was a blur of events.

 _‘Out of the way!’_ Michele had barked angrily when Yuuri and the handmaidens were heading to the dressing room. A group of commoners had blocked their path, curious and hungry to see the man that their Tsar had not only chosen twice, but thrice in a row, officially making him the first concubine in Victor Nikiforov’s reign to achieve that.

He did not know what they were expecting to witness, but with each little glimpse they saw of Yuuri behind Michele’s broad back, a louder gasp was released.

“What were you doing to him?” Michele questioned later, his eyes narrowed into slits. He was extra cautious and bad-tempered that night, Yuuri noticed. “Why was he screaming so loudly?”

“He’s not used to waxing.” One of the handmaidens defended, quirking a thin eyebrow. “Would you like to try it, ser?”

Sara smiled at Michele’s reddened face. “Don’t compliment him, ma’am; he’s not a _ser_ yet.”

Her twin merely glared at her.

Another handmaiden closer to Yuuri giggled, “You should see his Majesty in his monthly sessions,” she told them, “He doesn’t even blink anymore.”

Yuuri stared at the stinging skin of his arm, which was once again hairless after they plugged all of it out from the root, painfully so. He was not aware that the Tsar had to go through the same thing. He knew that the royalty groomed themselves in every way possible until their bodies reached absolute perfection, but somehow, he had overlooked that fact and only focused on his own pain.

Will Yurio have to go through the same thing when he was older? Yuuri wished he wouldn’t.

He heard his name being called and he turned, finding Sara pointing at half a dozen garments that laid on the table in front of her. “We received instructions to dress you as you wish,” she told him, “So what would you like to wear?”

Yuuri chose the only one that wasn’t a gown.

Sara furrowed her eyebrows, obviously unimpressed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes?”

“It will be…” Sara put a hand on her chin, turning away from him. “Uh, it will be hard to take it off.”

“You certainly think of all the important things, sister.” Michele commented dryly.

“Michele, I will kick you out if you don’t keep quiet. I swear it.”

“I want to wear the doublet.” Yuuri said, wishing he didn’t sound too desperate. “And the Tsar… the Tsar likes leather trousers.”

“He said he likes it on you?” Sara was instantly picking the garment without any further argument. “Why, of course. Of course!”

He _didn’t_ mean it like that. He was only trying to tell her that he had seen the Tsar wearing a pair the fortnight prior; it wasn’t his intention to sound so conceited.

But as long as she wasn’t going to dress him like a woman again, then Yuuri wouldn’t mind. Nor would he care about the way everyone was staring at him now.

That only worsened when Yuuri finished dressing, the attire fitting him like a second skin. Michele was looking away, embarrassed; from him, or from himself, Yuuri wasn’t sure. The room that was previously filled with chatter had quieted all of a sudden.

The white dress surely revealed more skin, but the current outfit looked overly sultry. It seemed so plain on the table when Yuuri first looked at it; he should have known it wasn’t.

The dark orange, sleeveless doublet was made of very thick fabric, and it had a plunging neckline that reached a little above his belly button, covering his chest with only three straps on its way. The black leather trousers, however, looked downright hideous on him, he knew.

“Y-you were right,” Yuuri said, feeling ashamed, “I will wear something else. These trousers are way too-“

“Oh no, Yuuri,” Sara said as she fastened a complimentary choker around his neck, glancing at his reflection with an approving smirk. “It’s _flawless.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 That night in particular, the Tsar didn’t talk as much.

Again, he asked him to read, and do nothing else. The tone of his voice was clipped, forced, and airy, and his clutch on Makkachin almost looked painful at some instances the more he watched him, his eyes never staying in one place as they raked over every inch of Yuuri’s body, possibly doing filthy things to him in his imagination, things he should be doing right then in reality.

But he wasn’t; he didn’t even touch him once, in any way. And all what Yuuri could do was stay guarded and wait.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 The next time the handmaidens received him, Yuuri found that they weren’t so terrible after all.

The more they familiarized with Yuuri, the gentler they became, sparking conversations with him and asking him what products he preferred, as if Yuuri cared about any of it. Yet, the mere suggestions were enough to calm him, to assure him that he was retaking control, tiny amounts of it, but control all the same.

For some reason, he didn’t react so badly to the waxing sessions anymore.

 _If the Tsar can take it._ Yuuri thought stubbornly, clenching his teeth with every harsh pull of hair. _Then so can I._

Yuuri didn’t want to choose anything other than his previous attire. It made him feel exposed, yes, but at least it wasn’t a dress. And for some reason, wearing it made him feel empowered. In control.

Sara never questioned him again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Something Yuuri had learned in his next visits to the Tsar’s quarters was that the man liked to voice his compliments the second he thought of them.

And they were so many; Yuuri didn’t think that even the merchant had complimented him so much.

Yet, the comparison felt unjust, _wrong._ Because the Tsar rarely commented about his looks after the first couple of visits, and now preferred to praise him about things that perhaps no one bothered to even notice before.

 _‘You have such a pretty voice.’_ He once said, his hand reaching out to play with the ends of Yuuri’s hair. It was such a faint touch that Yuuri didn’t even flinch that time. _‘Don’t be so tense; it makes it less pretty.’_

Yuuri didn’t know how he couldn’t be tense if the Tsar always sat so close to him. But the more he found himself in the same exact position, the more relaxed he became, and the stiller his voice came out.

It was as if Yuuri’s body was following his owner’s command by its own.

 _‘I don’t know what they bathe you in,’_ he had interrupted him once again while he read, _‘But I’ve never smelled a lovelier scent. It must be your essence; don’t you think so, Yuu-ri?’_

Yuuri had only stared at him, speechless and embarrassed by such exaggerated words.

 _‘You read so nicely.’_ He had said once, _‘Your French is perhaps better than anyone I’ve seen in Russia.’_

Yuuri had told him – completely bewildered by that undeserved praise – that it was only because he read a lot.

 _‘Hmm? And that makes it less impressive?’_ the man smiled in amusement. _‘Silly Yuuri; I could count the individuals who can read in this castle with my fingers. Lots of my people are illiterate. Though, I’m trying to change that.’_

Yuuri knew all about it; he knew that the Tsar was working on building education facilities that were available for people of common birth all around the empire. Yuuri was aware of the whole plan, but didn’t want the emperor to suspect his knowledge.

 _‘You’re a wonder, Yuuri.’_ He had said on his last visit, interrupting him again. _‘I heard you speak four languages fluently. And you can engage in four more? I’m awed.’_

 _‘Only little bits.’_ Yuuri had answered briefly, not understanding why he seemed so impressed by something as minor as that.

The Tsar had chuckled, amused. _‘You’re so humble.’_

He played with that knowledge the next time Yuuri visited, talking to him the entire time in English, in which Yuuri found, for some reason, easier to talk back with. He was now worried less about his pronunciations, finding English a lot simpler than French in more ways than one.

The Tsar seemed to pick up on it, and just like that, he switched to talking to Yuuri in English whenever they were together, like it was a game to him; an experiment. Like Yuuri was a toy that needed to be played with in a specific pattern, a toy that had particular buttons that needed to be pressed accordingly.   

Countless people, for sure, wondered what was happening in that room every fortnight, yet they weren’t aware that Yuuri was the one who was confused the most.

But as the days went by, as the harem quieted with fear and defeat, he found that he was content for the peace and quiet. Even Michele wasn’t so bad; all he did was watch him from afar and never approached unless it was absolutely necessary.

And somehow, somehow his situation did not feel so unpleasant anymore.

 _‘Don’t get used to it.’_ A wise voice in Yuuri’s head said, _‘Don’t be fool enough to get used to it.’_

 

 

* * *

 

 

One night, Yuuri found himself completely alone in the imperial quarters. Emil had told Yuuri and his party that the Tsar would join him shortly after, and told him to wait inside.

The clock ticked loudly, its hands heavy with time that refused to pass quickly. Yuuri’s gaze landed on the painting in the corner of the quarters once again.

Yuuri had witnessed many things in his twenty years of life that were unjustifiably scary, but that painting had a sort of air to it that made him shiver every time they faced each other.

A part of him believed that understanding that painting, discovering the reason why their owner painted it, would help him comprehend the reasoning behind the Tsar’s odd behavior when it came to Yuuri.

Only if it wasn’t upside down, then Yuuri might catch some details in it that would help him unravel the mystery that was Victor Nikiforov.

But it was still there, hidden by the shadows, unfinished and probably not touched in months, with Yuuri’s pale face clearly painted on its canvas with breathtaking detail.

It was the eyes that helped Yuuri recognize himself the first time he looked at it properly, because he knew no one else outside of Japan had those eyes but himself and Minako. And that man in the painting was surely not his former ballet teacher.

There was something in his mouth, Yuuri saw, clasped between straight teeth in a playful bite: dark, thin, and linear, resembling a stick, or a part of a belt, he wasn’t sure. Each option was more terrifying than the other, and nothing he thought of would explain why the Tsar would draw him – or any other person for that matter – with a foreign object in his mouth.

A part of Yuuri was aware that the Tsar wanted to do sinful things to him, if his stares were anything to go by. No matter how hard he tried, Yuuri honestly couldn’t relate that item in his mouth with anything that wasn’t sexual.

The painting covered him from head to torso, skin entirely naked and his neck and arms free of the jewelry he was constantly forced to wear. That all, of course, except for the armlet that was drawn with precise detail, on his right arm that stretched above him and outside of the canvas, like he was lying on the ground, laid out and bare.

If he was lying on a bed, Yuuri squinted, then that would explain why his hair seemed so disheveled, standing on top of his head in thin swirls.

But the more he looked at it, the more he doubted that it was him; that person who was drawn with such care must have been the most handsome Japanese man he had ever seen, and he didn’t even need to look at it in an upright position to see that.

The clock kept ticking, the man in the portrait kept looking at him with that dirty look, the curiosity intensified with each passing moment that he was feeling it running with his blood, and Yuuri’s control broke.

He wanted to know if it was truly him, and he wanted to know _badly._

Yuuri walked closer, cautious, as if he was approaching a living monster, and began to examine it more closely. He tried to gather enough courage to grab it and turn it around, but something in Yuuri told him that if the Tsar knew someone had touched one of his personal belongings, he won’t be pleased.

Yuuri had wondered to himself, ever since that day with Yurio, why he had learned to stand on his hands without actually needing that skill for anything. But it was almost destiny when the idea finally ignited, and nothing was able to stop Yuuri from going along with it until he got some answers.

Thus, with his less than comfortable leather trousers, Yuuri took a deep breath and planted one of his hands on the floor, bracing his body ‘til it was adjusted to the shift, and joined his free hand next to the other to stand more comfortably, ignoring the rush of blood that instantly traveled to his head.

One look had Yuuri abruptly shifting back to his feet.

He took a few steps back, his heart beating so wildly that he felt its rampage at the opening of his throat. There was something wrong with it, something so _terribly_ wrong with it, and Yuuri couldn’t decide what it was for the life of him.

He knew one thing, however, he knew he would never make such a wicked expression; his face wouldn’t be capable of pulling it.

Why did the Tsar draw him like that? What did he want to accomplish by doing so? What was going through his mind when he did?

Yuuri heard the door opening and instantly shifted his gaze toward the man who entered hurriedly, talking with massive excitement, not noticing how frightened Yuuri was by his latest discoveries.

“Yuuri!” he said loudly. It took a moment for Yuuri to notice the violin in his hand. “Did I make you wait for too long?”

Yuuri shook his head, although he wasn’t sure how much time passed. Minutes? Hours? He couldn’t tell.

“Let’s not read tonight.” He told him, standing inches away from Yuuri. It made his breath hitch. “I want to play another piece I love. Would you like to dance to it?”

“Of course.” Yuuri instantly said what the man wanted to hear. “Anything you want, your Majesty.”

The Tsar’s smile faltered before he turned, walking away and giving Yuuri space until he was standing right next to the painting. Yuuri tried not to think too hard about it, but failed. Because seeing him right next to it reminded Yuuri that he did, in fact, sit down for a long time and drew every detail with his own hand.

When the music started playing, however, Yuuri was reminded of how well the Tsar played his music, as if he was making love to his violin with each passionate stroke of his bow.

Unlike the last time, the Tsar did not give him time to prepare for the dance or give him a sample to familiarize with. Not that it would have made any difference; it was the first time that Yuuri had heard such melody, even though in some instances, it did seem quite familiar.

Yuuri was stumbling from the beginning, every other move clumsy and unpracticed. He was almost overwhelmed with embarrassment and shame until he saw a glimpse of the Tsar’s face. He was grinning – a pretty grin on a pretty face – and did not seem mad at all, which put Yuuri at ease.

Somewhere in the middle of the song, Yuuri stopped caring. He did not care about his elegance or swiftness, about the supposed beauty of the dance, or even about pleasing the Tsar, because the melody was breathtaking, and Yuuri was falling more in love with it after every tranquil tune. He performed a basic dance after he recovered from his initial tremor, and although it wasn’t entirely bad, he knew that it did not belong anywhere near that song.

The Tsar was laughing when the melody ended, running his bow against the body of the violin one last time. It was a pretty laugh, Yuuri decided, like everything else about that man.

He looked at Yuuri with a genuine, warm smile for the first time, which should have definitely shaped his lips more often, for it was such an ethereal sight to withhold. “Yurio would have shrieked if he saw his teacher dancing like this.”

Yuuri blinked, panting softly at the exercise and taking his time to process what he had just heard.

The emperor’s voice was so steady, and his posture was so laid back. The corner of his lips was stretching upward in delight, and nothing he had said – nothing that Yuuri was able to detect – seemed anywhere near what Yuuri had ever imagined his reaction to be when he discovered those schemes.

 _He knew?_  Yuuri gaped, speechless at the sudden realization. _He knew all along?_

Yuuri instantly felt lightness on his shoulders. The burden that had once called Yuuri its home dissipated into particles, allowing him to finally breathe more steadily, knowing that the Tsar was aware of his lessons with Yurio – and did not even look slightly upset by it.

“Your Majesty?”

The Tsar stilled, his eyes widening at his honorific. He turned toward Yuuri, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Yes, Yuuri?”

He thought of Yurio, who was progressing better than he had ever hoped for. He thought of the young boy distancing himself from Yuuri by each passing lesson they had. He thought of the many times the Tsesarevich had told him about his wishes to become the best dancer there ever was, restrictions be damned. He thought of bright green eyes that – similar to a pair of brown ones so long ago – were beginning to lose their shine and turn blank with emptiness, as if the more he practiced with Yuuri, the more his longing and despair grew.

“Can you play it one more time, please?”

The warm smile returned, gorgeous blue eyes narrowing in contentment after hearing the request. The Tsar’s next words were soft and gentle as loving caresses.

“Anything you want, darling.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 “Why don’t we start practicing a full routine?” Yuuri offered the next morning as he watched Yurio stretch in front of him, ready for that day’s lesson.

Yurio looked up, surprised by the sudden announcement. It had been a while since the two had exchanged anything outside of instructions and angry exclamations. “You mean… dancing to a song?”

“Yes.” Yuuri put his hands on his hips. “So you can later perform it.”

“For who?” Yurio grumbled, looking away. “For Otabek? He had already seen enough of my dancing to last him a lifetime.”

“I will never mind watching you dance, your Highness.” The knight responded, his voice soft.

Yuuri pressed his lips together. “Why not a crowd?”

Otabek merely stared at Yuuri, curious.

Yurio halted his stretching, lifting his head to glower at him with pure irritation. “Pig, in case you have forgotten; I’m the heir of this empire. Victor might not mind it, but his godforsaken counselors would. His people would. The Faith would. Are you trying to strip away my titles too?”

“No, no! Of course not!” he brought his hands in front of him, his face reddening at the accusation. “Listen to me, your Highness. I was not aware that his Majesty approves of your dancing. If he does, shouldn’t you take advantage of that?”

“How?!” the boy retorted.

“Your Highness,” Yuuri walked closer to him. “No one needs to know it’s you who’s dancing. I have seen so many dancers wearing masks in their performances. I do chores for the craftsmen quite often; I can ask them for a favor. And you can wear a wig if you want be to extra cautious.”

“Can they-” Yurio suddenly jolted, jumping to his feet and practically sprinting to the other side of the room where Yuuri stood. “Can they make me a mask of a tiger?”

Yuuri couldn’t help but smile in amusement. “Of course, and you can wear a large white wig, like a mane.”

“Tigers do not have manes – but _alright_ _,”_ Yurio turned toward Otabek, grinning. “I can build a reputation and people would know me as the _‘The Masked Tiger of Russia’!”_

Otabek smiled back. Yuuri had never seen either of the boys so expressive. “Your dancing would hold the kind of mystery to it that a normal performance lacks.”

Yurio’s eyes widened at the idea. “That- that sounds brilliant!”

“Your Highness,” Yuuri held a finger, trying his hardest to sound stern. “We will only proceed if you’re granted permission from his Majesty. Am I clear?”

“Pig,” Yurio turned to him, grinning even wider. “That would be the _easy_ part.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It was after the sixth consecutive time he had been chosen when it happened, unexpectedly for Yuuri, but predictably for many others.

All of the concubines were called to the entrance, and after minutes of suspenseful waiting, of eager eyes inspecting the harem gates eagerly, of hopeful hearts wanting a change to the current, devastating routine, a figure emerged.

It was not the silver haired man that many were expecting. Instead, Minako entered through the doors, looking like she would rather be anywhere else but that place, with a roll of paper clenched tightly in her hand. It was the first time that Yuuri had ever seen her inside the walls of the harem, and perhaps the last.

He had missed her, Yuuri realized, his throat tightening. He had missed the only pillar that managed to hold him together, and was now consumed with complete loneliness and desolation because of it.

But then Yuuri remembered what he had done to her; the vile, unwarranted words he had snarled at her that night, and told himself that he deserved her absence.

 _“Attention."_ She shouted, successfully managing to silence all the confused whispers before they even began. “I’ve come here to deliver an important announcement from his Majesty.”

Yuuri rested in a spot against the wall, curious, and trying his hardest to avoid all the glares that were sent his way, as if he had the slightest clue on what was going to be said.

“In here are specific instructions,” grumbling, Minako held the roll of paper high in the air. “Stating that the concubines are not required to present during the Taking every fortnight, because there will be no more of the Taking until further notice.”

Yuuri’s eyes were almost going to bulge out of his eye sockets when he heard the last part of that statement. Nothing better could have been said about his peers, who almost collectively stood frozen, their jaws hanging.

“His Majesty shall not accept any new concubines into his harem, either.” Minako continued, her voice loud as thunder for everyone to hear. “However, he won’t send anyone away,” her face softened, as if she was sensing their rising panic and fear, “Don’t fret. You’re all going to stay under his care for now, and will be assigned somewhere else by the new year; that’s an unusual long time, and a courtesy of his… But I’m afraid,” she lowered her arm, “That the Tsar has no more need of you privately, until he states otherwise.”

With an apologetic bow, Minako gathered her skirt and turned, not uttering any other word and avoiding the eyes of many that looked at her as if she had sentenced them to death, and nothing worse than death.

 _‘Why?!’_ Yuuri heard an angry, loud exclamation, coming from someone standing at the far end of the harem.

Soon, many other objections followed, the earlier statement only stocking the fire of the concubine’s desperation and feebleness.

_‘What did we do?’_

_‘Why doesn’t he want us anymore?’_

_‘Why is he treating us like this?’_

_‘Tell us why!’_

_‘That’s the least you could do!’_

Minako spun around on her heel, the movement accompanied with the grace of a ballerina. Yet, she didn’t look like the beauty Yuuri saw when she danced; rather, she looked angry and fuming.

 _“Enough.”_ She barked, and once again was successful in hushing them. “I know you are constantly being mistreated by the people in this castle,” Minako said, “But I care about you, pretty boys and girls. I do; more than you think.” She sighed, “All I wanted to do was spare your feelings, but as you wish _.”_

Everyone held their breaths when Minako unrolled the letter, spread it open in front of her, and began reading aloud.

 _“I feel as if the Taking had turned into an unnecessary hassle of late. And in all frankness, I do not wish to waste my time, the concubines’ time, or give anyone hope, for that would be too inconsiderate of me. I am not blind to the faces of the concubines during the recent choosings, and I do not enjoy being purposefully cruel. ”_ Minako paused, biting her lip, then continued after a shake of her head. _“I do not, and_ ** _will not_** _desire anyone other than the man that had captured my heart: Yuuri of the Forbidden Kingdom. I do not wish to fuel the hate toward him, for any harm done to my Yuuri, by a concubine, a servant, a noble, or even a royal, no matter how severe, will be not be forgiven and its punishment is death. I do not take pleasure in ending my own people’s lives, but as I have proven before in two occasions, I will not waver, either. Any attack on my Yuuri, will be considered an attack on myself.”_

Yuuri watched her leave with a storm of thoughts and emotions that only a single, short passage managed to deliver. He did not pay attention to all the eyes that were now solely focused on him, many of them teary, hurt, and hateful. Instead, there was one realization that had dawned on him all of a sudden, overshadowing every other aspect of the surreal condition he had found himself in.  

Minako had said _‘until further notice’_ , whereas the Tsar never did.

 _What do you want from me?_ He asked, almost reaching despair. _When will you tell me what you want from me?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri found himself, once again, alone in the Tsar’s quarters the following fortnight.

It was somehow more calming; how he did not need to be present in the Taking anymore, under the scrutiny of so many eyes. It was more private; how he and Michele had managed to reach the dressing room without anyone stalling their journey. And it had more clarity to it, how his blood wasn’t a constant rush from dread, how his breaths weren’t shorter from anxiety, and how his eyes didn’t blur terribly from the pressure.

He was trying not to succumb to the painting’s eerie calls of attention, keeping himself as far away as he could from it, when he heard quiet footsteps approaching from the small door across the bedroom.

A frail handmaiden appeared, dressed fancier than any commoners Yuuri had seen, her hair secured tightly in a bob above her head.

“His Majesty is bathing,” she said, grabbing a set of cottony white towels on the nearest chair. “I shall go and prepare his garment. So if you will?”

Yuuri blinked, staring at the white towels she was holding for him.

“You… you want _me_ to-”

“Yes.” She smiled, something mischievous lacing her tone as she threw the towels on him. Yuuri barely managed to catch them before they fell on the floor. “Thank you very much, sir.”

Yuuri watched her leave, utterly confused by both the encounter, and the honorific that did not fit his status whatsoever.

He shrugged to himself, overlooking it as a nice gesture, and opened the door of the Tsar’s private washroom after freeing one of his hands.

He was even more impressed by the massive size of the quarters when he noticed that there was an entire corridor leading to the washroom, its air becoming more moist and heavy the more distance he crossed.

There was no door to the actual washroom; the only thing that notified Yuuri of the Tsar’s presence was the sound of running water and the dash of fog.

“Your Majesty,” Yuuri said as quietly as he could as to not disturb the man, rounding a corner at the end of the hallway. “I brought you the… t-towels, the towels.”

He turned his head away in shame, cursing the humidity around the washroom walls that was suddenly overwhelming his face with sizzling heat and uncomfortableness.

“Oh, Yuuri.” The Tsar’s voice echoed all around the small space, bare feet stamping droplets of water under them as they approached. “Will you turn around?”

Yuuri bowed to his direction, his eyes cast down willfully as he stretched his arms forward, almost shoving the towels onto the man’s naked chest.

Humming, the Tsar unfolded the items Yuuri offered, and only then did he realize that there was actually a bathrobe in his hands the whole time.

The Tsar took his sweet time donning on the robe, extending his arm and slipping it into the cottony sleeve with a graceful run of his hand, every movement of his body elegant and sensual. Yuuri wondered if he was doing it on purpose, or if it was simply spontaneous and natural for him to move like that with another man so close to his nakedness. The nakedness that he did not seem to want to cover completely; as the robe barely covered half of his shoulders and little bits of his abdomen, and was continuing to slip the more he moved.

“May I leave?” Yuuri asked the moment the Tsar retrieved the last towel, perhaps sounding too eager to escape.

“Well,” the Tsar – who had just talked so animatedly a minute ago – responded with a tone as chill as ice. “If you so badly want to.”

There were so many different smiles that that man’s lips adorned, each for a different instance or mood, and Yuuri had to admit that out of all of them, the cold one affected him the most with its intensity and weight.

Yuuri should have jumped to deny the words. He should have apologized heatedly for the way the question came out of his mouth. He should have spent minutes assuring the emperor that he did not wish to leave badly at all, that being near him was a privilege, and that he would stay as long as the man wished for him to stay.

But Yuuri simply did not want to lie.

With a glare, Yuuri released himself from his bow and went toward the corridor, ignoring how the sound of a bucket getting kicked resonated behind him in fuming waves.

Yuuri sat on his designated spot on the bed, watching the handmaiden dress the Tsar with practiced hands and a kind smile. The woman was giggling ever so often as the two exchanged quiet words with one another. Yuuri did not hear what they were saying, but he did, however, hear how rapid, mutual, and unprompted their conversation was, providing a contrast to whenever the two men tried to communicate.

He looked away when his eyes connected with the Tsar’s blue ones across the reflection of the mirror.

He wished Makkachin was there. He liked staring at Makkachin when he was clueless and did not know what was happening around him, which, admittedly, was a recurring theme whenever he was in that room.

That night, Yuuri did not respond in any way when he was interrupted. That might have been the reason why the Tsar released one loud sigh and dismissed him even earlier than usual.

Yuuri did not understand why he, himself, was so irritated when he walked back to the harem with Michele. Perhaps it was the strange way his guard stared at him, as if sensing the underlying tension that wasn’t present before. Or because Yuuri had seen something that will haunt him for the foreseeable future, that might spur him to make stupid decisions that he will surely regret.

 

 

* * *

 

 

During his stay in Italy, Yuuri had to find ways to occupy himself after his daily sessions with the Madams had ended. They might have seemed like they took forever, but in reality, Yuuri spent the majority of his days reading and scarcely found any other interesting thing to do. He felt like an outcast in his own body, which was, day by day, turning into a foreign territory after every violation. Worst of all, none of them had ever touched him; it was his own hands that were doing all the abuse.

After catching a glimpse of the sculptors working outside in the palace gardens, Yuuri made it a habit to sit on a bench and watch them work every afternoon. There was something about the way they brought the shapeless, vacant boulders of stone and managed to turn them into pieces of art overnight that completely fascinated him, that gave him hope that one day he might be able to restructure his own body into something half as lovely, something that he did not completely loathe.

One of the sculptors that stayed later than the rest – Angelo, they called him – eventually invited Yuuri closer after weeks of spotting him in the gardens with his sad brown eyes fixed on their work.

Angelo was a kind old man who had a sharp, vile tongue, but the most gentle and loving hands, hands that created different breathtaking pieces of art almost every single day.

Angelo was lonely, however, and enjoyed explaining to Yuuri about every single thing that went behind the creation of each sculpture, which eventually sparked a new passion in Yuuri.

He remembered one time Angelo had finished creating a statue for the Italian King – Yuuri’s owner at the time – and was grinning from ear to ear as he examined it, eyes filled with amusement.

 _‘Did the King really look that in his youth?’_ Yuuri couldn’t stop himself from asking, for his owner was very old, very plain looking, and so very big. Whilst the marble sculpture looked like a naked Olympian god, to say the least.

Angelo had laughed so loudly Yuuri was startled.

 _‘Oh, slave.’_ He couldn’t stop snickering, even as he explained. _‘I have never, in all my fucking thirty years in this donkey work, crafted a man based on what they looked like. You think any of those cunts look near as good as I make them? Exaggerate, Yuuri, we have to exaggerate to feed their egos as they sit on their fat arses all day.’_ Angelo snorted, _‘Aye, those kings had never looked so godly, not in their youth, not in their fucking_ **_dreams_** ** _.’_**

And now Yuuri, with the inside of his elbow covering his tired eyes as he lied awake at night, fighting off another wave of insomnia that refused to unloose its clutches on him, was wondering if Angelo simply worked for the wrong people his entire life.

He remembered the way Angelo’s mallet stroke the chisel as he worked; carefully carving exaggerated muscles into the body of his statues: thick, visibly parted, and solid around the chest, as he taught Yuuri, leaner and sharper as he went downward toward the pelvic bone, looser yet evident around the thighs, rounder on the biceps, much larger in volume, and slim around the calves. All of it created what the man liked to call the ultimate male body that kings could only wish to have.

 _But Angelo,_ Yuuri wanted to say. _I just saw a man that looked like you had carved him with your own hands._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri did not have a blink of sleep for many days after that.

His time in his tiny room was spent lying on the mattress, staring at the empty ceiling, his body tranquil and motionless like Angelo’s statues as he allowed foreign cravings to course through his being slowly, but potently, until it felt like poison. A delicious, torturous, and sinful poison that he was susceptible to.

Sexual urges were always an abomination to him.

Since he was a child, Yuuri was taught to not yearn for anyone other than his future spouse and betrothed. Since he was enslaved, he was told to not dare want anyone but his owners; else they would have his head on a spike.

Not the fellow concubines, not any other slaves or commoners, nobles or royals; no one else but his owner was to be the object of his desire as long as he lived. So it was easy for Yuuri to never breach that wall; despising and blocking himself from his various owners came to him very naturally since the beginning of his slavery.

At some point, Yuuri had forgotten that he was a human being. A man. A young, inexperienced man who could have his own irrational desires, a man who would want to satisfy his own sick pleasures; a man who was attracted to other men.

Everything about his existence, for almost five continuous years, was sexualized, until at last, it stopped being so.

It was only irony that his desires had bloomed then.

Yuuri started laughing, allowing the hysterics to take over him.

He had seen countless people naked since his escape from Japan, for he had to shower in public baths ever since, mostly with other concubines that all had stunning bodies that people could not help but stare in awe at.

Yuuri had never denied anyone’s attractiveness, male or female, but he had never felt such filthy needs that demanded to be sedated so powerfully, almost clouding his entire mind with every surge.

Yuuri didn’t close his eyes; didn’t _want_ to close his eyes. Because all he was going to see, he knew, was a living, breathing statue; a memory of a naked Victor Nikiforov.

And he did not want to see that, to picture that. He did not want to feel the sudden tightness in his trousers again or the unwelcomed flush on his cheeks. He did not want to feel the unreasonable _wanting._

Soon enough, he realized that he, in fact, was not laughing at all. Those were dry chuckles that came out of his throat, disguised sobs of agony that were not accompanied with tears, because Yuuri was incapable of producing any.

He smiled at his own foolishness, trying his hardest to silence himself as to not notify the rest of the harem that he, the _oh_ so mighty and arrogant Yuuri of the Forbidden Kingdom, who seduced their Tsar and was playing with him like a toy, had just, for the first time in his life, felt sexual urges toward someone.

He chuckled some more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri was starting to feel scared.

He felt scared of himself more than anything else. He was scared of some of the thoughts that ran through his head when he let them roam freely.

He had never wanted anyone before, never thought that he would after everything that happened to him. He was a sex slave; people were supposed to want _him_ , weren’t they?

His current owner, however, the first owner that had decided to keep Yuuri for himself, who had chosen him a dozen times thus far, who showered him with compliments and claimed he did not need any other concubine, seemed to want him in every way but the way he was supposed to.

It didn’t bother Yuuri, not at all. But it confused him to no end.

The Tsar still seemed quite upset about their quarrel, Yuuri figured. Not that his smiles revealed anything other than a calm, charming persona. But something about his silence did not seem right.

But _was_ it a quarrel? Yuuri was not sure what had happened the last time he was in that room. He only knew that he had left feeling extremely irritated, and the Tsar most likely disappointed.

Yuuri found himself noticing things that he hasn’t before. Like how the Tsar’s sleeping garment revealed his collarbones in clear display, sharp and sliding against his skin every time he moved. Yuuri noticed that said skin was not just pale as snow, but seemed extremely smooth to the touch. And his lips, he saw, his lips looked so glossy he was wondering if the royal handmaidens had applied something on them as they did on Yuuri’s, or if they simply looked like that by their own.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, with the closed book in hand and wandering eyes directed at the Tsar’s form, discovering new things like it was the first time he had worn his eyeglasses.

His Majesty did not seem to notice the unusual behavior, for he was also staring at Yuuri, as he always did when they were together. Though, the Tsar’s gaze was always heavier, always more absorbed, always sadder.

Yuuri had been waiting for the command to start reading, but it seemed like the Tsar had forgotten it all together. Taking initiative, Yuuri opened the page where they stopped at and began their routine, wondering to himself on what was happening inside of the Tsar’s head.

Was he so upset with Yuuri that he was thinking of ways to get rid of him at last? He wondered, his clutch on the book tightening at the unpleasant thought.

He felt warmth approaching, and a hand reaching out to play with Yuuri’s hair that had fallen to the front of his face. Yuuri had to stop himself from exhaling loudly in relief.

 _I still have time._ He thought. _I still have time before it all ends._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri liked what the servants wore.

Unembellished white shirts that covered everything, black pants that were not in ridiculous sizes, and buttoned silver vests that provided elegance that only fit the people who worked in the imperial palace.

Yuuri liked the outfit, he liked it very much, for it must have been the most masculine garment he had worn in years.

“Thank you for helping again, Yuuri.” Leo had told him frantically as both of them cleared one of the guests’ tables. “But you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to help.” Yuuri said, balancing two plates on one of his arms easily. “There seems to be a lot of guests tonight.”

He looked around the hall that was currently holding another massive banquet, merely twice as big as the attendance of the first ball he had danced in so long ago.

It was in the honor of China’s imperial family, Yuuri heard, who were invited to Russia to reach a settlement regarding manners related to mutual exportation between the two nations.

“His Majesty invited lots of people tonight,” Leo informed, somehow managing to hold six plates all at once as they moved to the food carriages across the hall. He said the next part of his sentence in Spanish, knowing that Yuuri understood it quite well. “For god’s sakes, half of those are not even Chinese!”

Yuuri chuckled, grabbing an empty plate before seeing who had finished it. “Oh, Phichit-kun,” Yuuri smiled, “Hope you enjoyed your meal.”

“Yuuri!” Phichit gasped, looking up from his sketchbook abruptly. “Don’t startle me like that!”

Leo smiled in amusement. “Then maybe you shouldn’t draw in the middle of a feast, Chulanont.”

Phichit pointed a piece of black chalk at Leo, grinning. “I saw you gawking at _some_ of the guests. At least I’m respectfully sketching them.”

Leo coughed, hurriedly moving on after directing a playful glare toward Phichit, the tip of his ears turning red.

Yuuri followed after him, clueless to what the two were talking about, but not curious. After all, he was not there for chatter. He was not even there to help, though, it was an advantageous disguise.

Michele had left him after he accompanied Yuuri to the harem, since outsiders were not allowed to linger there for too long, and most probably went to get some rest before he had to walk Yuuri again to the Tsar’s chambers for the Taking - or rather, the unofficial version - which was supposed to take place later that night.

Yuuri knew the fact that he sneaked out would anger his guard, but nothing would be able to keep him from attending that banquet.

A familiar beat of music was released from the orchestra next to him, a woman was singing along with one of the most angelic voices he had ever heard, and Yuuri was struck with awe when Yurio finally stepped into the center of the hall.

The boy’s face was covered with a fierce, black and white mask of a tiger, his long, white wig covering half of his back, and his costume sparkling with its fineness.

After an entire month of hard work and drilling practice, he was finally going to see his student triumph with his own eyes. Other people would finally be able to see that talented being who will certainly astonish any audience he danced for.

That was something Yuuri did not doubt for a second; Yurio had worked harder than he thought was capable of for a boy his age, molding his body into the music that he had chosen with care, becoming one with the steps that he had choreographed specifically for the Prince.

It was a struggle at first, Yuuri remembered with a smile as he watched the gorgeous boy break his pose. The Tsesarevich had demanded to dance to the music that Yuuri had used in the last banquet, and he had to hold back a wince and come up with ways to change Yurio’s mind, for the piece that Yuuri performed had steps in it that the boy had not learned perfectly yet. Otabek, of course, was the one who had convinced him, with gentle words and assurance that always seemed to work.

Yurio was dancing now, and he was dancing beautifully.

A critical side of Yuuri noted how the Prince had yet to grasp the emotional aspect of the dance, which he had pictured so vividly when he first heard the piece coming out of the Tsar’s violin, but he ignored it for the time being.

Instead, he watched Yurio perfecting every move steadily and gracefully, not falling under the visible pressure, something which Yuuri would’ve crumpled under if he was in his shoes at that age.

Yuuri was clutching his hands together, so was Yurio, as the boy pointed his hands at the ceiling and waited for the melody to die down, his chest moving up and down rapidly. He was completely exhausted, Yuuri knew, for Yurio’s endurance was limited, but oh what he managed to do with it.

It was a custom to wait for the emperor to clap first, but Yuuri was applauding as loud as he could before he could stop himself, his excitement and pride too great to care about prestige.

Thankfully, no one noticed, because at the same time, a woman was standing and clapping along, directing all the attention toward her.

“Bravo!” the lady’s green eyes – similar to Yurio’s – were soft and glassy, her sharp cheekbones tightening with the small smile she directed toward her son.

Yuuri had heard many things about the Grand Duchess Lilia, how cold, stern, and emotionless she was, but the woman in front of him mirrored Yuuri’s delight more than anyone else present, and nothing about it was surprising.

Soon enough the Tsar was standing by her side, clapping as enthusiastically. Yuuri couldn’t help but feel absolutely relieved, for he wanted that man’s approval more than anyone else’s.

The entire hall followed after him like thunder, and Yuuri looked around, perhaps feeling even more satisfied than Yurio himself at such ardent reception.

Yurio stood straight, taking a few seconds to catch his breath before he bowed elegantly toward the table where his family sat, who most certainly knew his identity judging by their loud cheers.

It was as hard for him as any of the previous dance steps, Yuuri recalled in amusement, for the Prince confessed that he had never bowed for anyone else in his entire life.

Yuuri’s eyes locked with the Tsesarevich’s green ones across the hall, and he nodded at his student in acknowledgment. He would have attended the banquet either way, but Yurio had threatened to behead him if Yuuri dared to miss his performance.

For the first time in a long while, Yuuri smiled sincerely, from the bottom of his heart, as he watched Yurio bow pointedly at his direction.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri stayed for a while longer, for he didn’t have the heart to leave Leo all alone before the last service of wine.

The side that they were assigned to was the farthest away from where the imperial family was situated, so Yuuri did not hesitate to help. Yurio had slyly joined the royals’ table, slightly reddened in the face under the secretive glances that his family shot his way, and the Tsar seemed too occupied with his guests to even notice that Yuuri was present.

The music commenced once again, various guests taking advantage of the lack of entertainers and heading toward the center of the hall to dance.

Otabek thanked him immensely, looking almost embarrassed when Yuuri served him the wine on the nobles’ table. Whereas Phichit refused the drink and started walking alongside him to the food carriages, gushing over all the sketches that he managed to draw the night.

To be truthful, Yuuri was also gushing quietly as the noble flipped over them, admiring his skills that Phichit had so wrongly underestimated before. Considering how quick the young man sketched, the results seemed to have countless incredible details that caught Yuuri by surprise.

 _“Leo!”_ Phichit called, giggling as he spotted the servant standing against the wall, looking both exhausted and deep in thought. “Come, see! I drew this specifically for you, dear friend!”

It was a drawing of one of the Chinese dukes, Yuuri saw briefly, before Phichit shoved it in front of Leo.

Leo took one glance at the sketch and chuckled dryly, “You can be very inconsiderate sometimes.”

“What?” Phichit seemed utterly confused, following Leo’s line of sight until he found what the servant was staring at. He covered his mouth with a hand, scandalized. _“Oh.”_

Yuuri saw it too, and was suddenly consumed with a familiar rush of unpleasant emotions.

This time, however, they were much more dominant, and much, much darker.

There was no wonder the Tsar was not aware of Yuuri’s presence throughout the night. Because in his arms, he saw, was a man that was everything that Yuuri wasn’t.

Yuuri understood why Leo couldn’t glance at the young duke without blushing since the banquet had started, since the more he looked at the handsome pair, dancing gracefully and exchanging earnest smiles, the more he saw how beautiful the Chinese duke was.

He had thick brown hair, similar to Bianca’s, and a slim, short figure that looked so devastatingly compatible next to the Tsar’s tall frame and broad shoulders. He had eastern brown eyes that were similar to Yuuri’s, but they were much more narrow and pretty to be compared with his wretched ones.

However, the one detail that managed to make Yuuri feel even worse, was the stunning _blue_ Changshan he was wearing so freely.

“Don’t you wish you were in his place?” Leo whispered next to him.

Yuuri was sure that even if his and Leo’s answers were similar, they would have meant two entirely different things.

“Why don’t we leave?” Phichit proposed all of a sudden, worriedly glancing between the two, as if sensing the dark shift of Yuuri’s mood. “Let’s get some fresh air! The hall is suddenly very-”

“I did hear that the Tsar is enamored by his new concubine,” Leo interrupted, grabbing a half empty wine glass on the table to gulp it down. “Though, I’m quite sure he’ll take this man as a lover. Who would be sane enough not to?”

 _“Leo.”_ Phichit cautioned him, horrified.

Yuuri did not react as badly as Phichit, who knew his identity whereas Leo didn’t. “You think so?”

“Trust me, Yuuri. I’ve seen his Majesty in enough banquets to tell.” The servant told him, “There was never a time when a young, handsome man of high status was present and he did not do that.”

He followed Leo’s suit, pouring himself what had remained of wine and gulping it down faster than it should have been healthy.

He was already in the process of drinking another glass when Phichit pointed at the pair in frantic waves of his hand.

“His Majesty is _clearly_ teaching him how to pair dance,” he said, mostly to Yuuri. “He’s laughing in embarrassment, can’t you see?”

“Phichit, my innocent friend,” Leo chuckled. “That’s called _seduction.”_

Yuuri finished another glass.

Phichit looked back and forth between the two, looking almost desperate to steer them away from that topic.

“Ah, well,” Leo smiled at Yuuri, “Perhaps we’ll finally stop hearing about that infamous concubine, no? I’m quite sick of it.”

“Leo!” Phichit yelled, “You have never seen his concubine, stop making assumptions!”

“Oh,” Leo blinked at the sudden exclamation, completely lost. “You might be right... But is he really as beautiful as they say?”

“No.” Yuuri said briskly, putting down his third glass and heading toward the door, his hand clenched into a painful fist. “No, he isn’t.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Somewhere along the way, Yuuri had forgotten that he wasn’t the only one.

It was easy to forget when the Tsar did not seem to pay attention to anyone else, solely focusing on Yuuri since the very day of his arrival.

It was easy to forget when the Tsar never chose anyone else for the Taking.

It was easy to forget when he showered him with compliments at any given chance.

It was easy when he had announced to the entire castle that Yuuri, and only Yuuri, was the one who had _captured his heart._

But Yuuri was still a slave; he was still significantly below the people whom the Tsar was surrounded by. He was still nothing compared to them. He was still, and always will be, forbidden from being seen with his Majesty in public, denied from dancing with him in front of his extravagant guests.

Because Yuuri did not belong in such moments; in the arms of such men while people watched. He only belonged in the Tsar’s bed, and even that, as atrocious as it was, was going to be taken away from him.

He remembered many months ago when he was in a similar position, resting against a cold wall in an empty hallway, trying his hardest to keep himself away from the grating noise and suffocating air of the banquet near him.

Back then, Yuuri was fearful and nervous. But now, now he felt nothing but _anger._

With his jaw clenched, Yuuri detached himself from the wall and started walking away from the noise, not wanting to be anywhere near that place anymore; anywhere near that man.

Yuuri was about to ascend a staircase when he felt sharp eyes on him. Looking up, his gaze locked with the person who was staring down at him from the top, frozen in their spot.

Bianca swallowed thickly, as if she saw something unsettling on Yuuri’s face. After she recovered from her initial shock, she gathered the hem of her black dress hastily and started to turn, obviously changing her direction as to not cross paths with him.

However, her dress was too long and as a result, her shoe tangled with one loose end of the gown and caused her to lose her footing.

And she was falling.

Yuuri reacted on instinct, his body moving by its own as he climbed four steps at once, his arms stretching forward to catch her tumbling figure.

Once she was in his arms, Yuuri turned both of them around and braced himself for impact.

Bianca screamed loudly when his back collided with the solid floor at the bottom of the staircase, his chest acting as a cushion for her body to fall flat against it.

Yuuri gasped, relief washing over him when he heard her whimper in fear, grabbing his vest with a weak fist.

 _She’s not dead._ He thought, noticing how far she would have fallen if he did not react so quickly. _She’s not dead because of me._

Bianca was the one who recovered first, pulling herself upright and using her knees to make distance between them. “W-why did you…” she shook her head, planting her foot on the floor to stand. “Are you-” with a sudden grumble, she went back on her knees. “Goddamn it!”

Yuuri sat up, ignoring the ache in his back and dusting off his sleeves. “What is it?”

She took off one of her shoes, wincing as she wrapped a hand around her foot. “My ankle.”

Yuuri stood with ease, his eyes widening at what she said. “I-Is it broken?”

“No… I don’t think so.” She shook her head, putting her foot back on the floor and applying pressure on it. A grimace formed on her face. “It’s twisted.”

“I will call Phichit.” Yuuri looked at the two sides of the empty hallway, not seeing anyone else in sight. “It would be more convenient if you wait for me near the hall.”

She looked up, glowering at him. “You _stupid_ man, can’t you see that I can’t-”

When Yuuri moved to pick her up, Bianca had instantly shut her mouth. Yuuri put one arm under her knees and the other under her back, lifting her off of the floor and adjusting to her weight.

“You will say that I’m the one who did this to you on purpose, wouldn’t you?” Yuuri commented knowingly, heading toward the direction of the banquet once again.

“It’s not like his Majesty would believe me if I did.” Bianca retaliated, sounding resigned and bitter. “A useless concubine accusing his precious witch of harming her? What a _joke.”_

 _“I’m not his precious!”_ he said through gritted teeth, more angry than he expected himself to be.

Bianca completely quieted after that, remaining as still as a stone while Yuuri carried her through the hallway.

The mention of the Tsar revived the searing anger in him, its source unknown but its strength undeniable. He remembered the night when Michele attacked him, how he shouted all around Yuuri’s semi unconscious form, retrieving him from Michele and carrying him in his arms the same way Yuuri was now carrying his own nemesis.

He should have known it was nothing compared to a man’s desire. After all, Yuuri was slowly beginning to know what it felt like to want someone for nothing other than one’s selfish needs.

Lost in his destructive thoughts, Yuuri did not see the mysterious way Bianca was staring at him, which would have allowed him to understand many of her future actions, only if he would’ve looked down for one split second.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I forgot my shoe.” Bianca glared at him the moment he settled her down on a bench near the hall’s doors.

Yuuri sighed, “You can get it back when you’re able to walk again.”

“You go get it back for me.”

“I’m not your servant.”

“Why, you’re dressed like one, for sure.” Bianca raised one of her eyebrow, her wit returning. “Why is that?”

“It’s none of your concern.” Yuuri responded coldly.

She averted her eyes, clearly not used to him being in such a dark mood.

Yet, there was something in the way she looked back at him again that had the same emotion he felt all those times the two had encountered one another, especially after the first time Yuuri was chosen.

She looked at him every now and then as if he had broken her heart.

It wasn’t surprising, not really, but Yuuri allowed the realization to shock him a little. He was aware that the entire harem was in love with their Tsar, save for Yuuri, but he did not consider that Bianca’s feelings could’ve been that deeply rooted.

Her love for her owner was much more personal, stronger, and it would explain why her resentment for Yuuri outshined every other person in that palace. It would explain why she seemed so stoic, so defeated, and much gloomier after what happened.

He thought that Bianca was smarter than that; she should have known that his Majesty broke hearts as easily as he breathed.

Yuuri had a desire to tell her that she had seen more of the Tsar during her one night with him than Yuuri had in three months, but he kept his mouth shut. There were only two people in the entire world that were aware of Yuuri’s purity, and he was sure that the Tsar would like that fact to stay hidden.

Yuuri had thought that knowing his pride had remained intact would keep him sane, but it was starting to do the exact opposite.

His purity was an illusion, something only he seemed to believe its existence. No one knew, and no one would ever know, that he had kept his pride. Furthermore, no one would ever believe that a royal concubine who had been chosen so many times was still a virgin. The idea was laughable, even to him.

Yuuri narrowed his eyes at his own wretched thoughts, but Bianca was the one who flinched from it.

He turned away. “Stay here until I send someone.”

“Wait.” Bianca grumbled, as if she hated the mere idea of asking him anything. “While you’re at it, would you find Miss Minako and inform her that I won’t be able to attend?”

Yuuri frowned. “Attend what?”

“The concubines’ performance will start shortly.” She huffed, “You must be quite satisfied of yourself; how we’re now reduced to mere entertainers because of you.” She said begrudgingly. “Go on, tell her. Then laugh when I get in trouble for it.”

A group of concubines dancing in a banquet was not unheard of, but Yuuri wouldn’t call it real dancing, for it was nothing other than random seductive movements to any piece of music that was playing for them at the time. Yuuri was certain that none of them had even practiced it, since he would have noticed. Usually it was a selected group of new concubines, the most beautiful ones, who would dance at a night of the Taking to seduce their owner through their dance.

Tonight included one of these performances, although all of them knew that their owner was not going to be seduced. Yet, what Yuuri cared more about was the fact that one spot had just been left vacant.

“I will take care of it.” Yuuri suddenly said.

Bianca’s round eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you mean?”

Yuuri did not answer, instead turned around and walked away from her, a new sense of determination sparking inside of him in frenzied flames that almost made his own skin burn.

Because for the first time, Yuuri _wanted_ to dance in front of a crowd.

He didn’t want to leave Russia; he wanted to stay near Minako, to continue training with Yurio and watch the boy blossom in front of his eyes, and to keep feeling safe and protected from the constant violence in his life.

And to have that; to _keep_ that, he had to hold the Tsar’s attention, for as long as he could.

But the attention was slowly diminishing; the Tsar was not even talking to him anymore whenever Yuuri was in his bedroom, certainly because he was starting to feel bored, was starting to notice how the game he was playing with Yuuri was not that entertaining.

His Majesty was still upset with Yuuri, and his attention might be gone for good if what Leo said came true.

Yuuri would lose the little influence he had gained, the Tsar will stop caring about him, Michele might not be required to protect him anymore if that happened, and Yuuri’s life would return to the same hell he had to endure every day.

And to prevent it from happening, Yuuri had to keep that man’s attention solely on him, and not on anyone else. Not another concubine, lover, or a handsome duke.

If Yuuri had learned anything in those five years of continuous anguish, it was exactly that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri donned a black dress; the only garment he could find in his room that was similar to the one Bianca wore.

There was something eerie about that piece, he knew, especially in the way it resembled the white dress he had worn so long ago. It might even be mistaken for the exact gown if not for the stark contrast of color.

He was not in control anymore, he was far from it. He was now submitting to the side of him that was created by all the people in his life, who had wanted him so desperately to turn into something he was not.

But Yuuri succumbed to his desperation, not allowing himself to see how he was planning his own fall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri waited near the back doors of the hall, standing far away to remain unseen and watching a group of concubines get assembled. The dozen of men and women were nodding to the instructions that Minako was giving them hurriedly before she went back inside.

He might’ve not been able to see clearly without his eyeglasses, but he only needed to hear the familiar music to know that it was time.

Not only was Yuuri wearing a similar dress, with the exact jewelry, but the song was also the same one the Tsar played for him at their first encounter.

That was what surged him on the most after the concubines disappeared inside, starting their routine, clueless to what they were about to witness.

After deciding on what exact note of the song he would enter to, Yuuri approached with twitching anticipation rummaging inside of him. Only a short revision of his previous fears was encouraging enough before Yuuri took a deep breath and slipped into the doors like a shadow, a shadow that was about to detonate and spread around the entirety of the banquet hall.

He invaded the performance with a moving spin, twirling around himself countless times until he implanted himself in the center of the dancing circle, instantly claiming the performance as his own.

The guests were clueless, but the concubines were not. They watched in confusion and awe as Yuuri ran his hands down his body, tilted his hip to the side, and directed one of his perfectly practiced smirks toward the royals’ table.

A pair of blue eyes instantly glued on Yuuri’s moving figure, and that’s all what he needed to know to begin a dance which he had perfected to its every last beat.

But artistic perfection wasn’t enough, Yuuri knew, not tonight. Modeled movements wouldn’t do, evident nervousness wouldn’t do, nor any stumbling or rigidity.

If the Tsar, indeed, was going to take a lover for the night and dismiss him, then Yuuri had to dance in a way that would make the man regret it.

The other concubines were nothing but decorations after his entrance, for they all settled in a perfect half circle around Yuuri, submitting to him and directing all eyes around the hall toward him and him alone.

Yuuri smiled darkly with every movement, because he knew, he knew that when he danced in his full capability, _he_ was the king, and everyone around him were nothing but peasants.

 _‘You have to hold yourself in a way that won’t make you look too easy,’_ he remembered the words of one of the Madams as she taught him that dance. _‘One suggestive, tempting gaze to hold their attention, and not as much as a glance until they can’t help but run after you.’_

And he did exactly that, pretending that the Tsar did not even exist as he brought a hand to the corner of his lips, pulling them down with an index finger and extending his free arm in front of him, making a random woman across the hall blush when their eyes connected.

 _‘It’s your body that they want,’_ he recalled the words of another teacher. _‘Every movement should highlight what they would miss if they did not have you.’_

Yuuri entered into another spin, making sure it was much more forceful, allowing one of the shoulder pieces of his dress to slip down all the way into the inside of his elbow without attempting to pull it back up. He resumed dancing with half of his chest and his entire shoulder exposed.

 _‘Focus your attention on someone else,’_ one of them had told him. _‘Jealousy drives a man mad.’_

He spotted a pair of widened dark eyes and Yuuri danced his way to the table Leo was standing next to, frozen in his spot with his mouth hung ajar.

Smirking, Yuuri grabbed the bewildered young man by the hand, pulling Leo toward him swiftly and noting the empty silver tray he was holding. Yuuri snatched the tray from his loose hand and threw it toward the ceiling, allowing it to spin above their heads.

At the same time, he grabbed Leo by the shoulder, whirling him around with a playful hand. He held the servant by his back when he faced Yuuri again, dipping him down toward the floor and looking up just in time to catch the tray gracefully.

Yuuri stretched the arm that was holding the tray to the side, but did not break eye contact with Leo, who was still looking at up Yuuri with disbelief. He grinned widely, and that was enough for the servant to break into joyful laughter, his entire face turning red.

Yuuri looked in front of him, wondering if Phichit was there to see such antics, completely forgetting that the apprentice was tending to the injured Bianca at the moment.

Instead of finding an amused stare, Yuuri’s eyes found the Tsar’s, whose table was so, so far away, his face blurred due to Yuuri’s weak vision. But something so distinctly scary overwhelmed his senses all of a sudden, almost making him drop Leo by how weak it made him.

Only then did he notice that the music was reaching an abrupt conclusion.

No one noticed any abnormality, but Yuuri knew; he knew too well that the song had ended way too soon.

He carefully straightened Leo, his face falling when he heard slow, heavy, and almost forced clapping coming from the royals’ table.

Roaring applause ensued, Yuuri guiltily realizing how louder it was than Yurio’s performance. Leo was still laughing, even if Yuuri’s ears were suddenly deaf to everything surrounding him.

Yuuri couldn’t breathe; no air was passing through his lungs, and nothing about it was because of his physical exhaustion.

 _What have I done?_ He asked himself, clutching one hand on his chest and feeling how his heart was pounding in fear. _What have I done?_

“Yuuri!” Leo exclaimed, holding him by the shoulder excitedly. The glare that was fixated on Yuuri only intensified then. “That was-”

A burned hand appeared on Leo’s arm, gently putting it down. “Boys,” Minako said, her voice leveled yet restrained. “If I may have Yuuri for a minute?”

Yuuri nodded, ignoring all the calls after him that were only becoming louder by the second. Various men and women around the hall were still cheering for him, yelling for the concubine that had just given them such a spectacular show, calling him all sorts of things that Yuuri did not deserve and did not want to be referred by.

He followed after Minako, her back stiff and her steps hurried as she headed toward the hall’s exit.

All the while Yuuri felt the Tsar’s gaze piercing holes through his back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You imprudent, _reckless_ fool!” Minako shouted the moment they were alone, her hands shaking.

Yuuri did not dwell on how those were the first words she had spoken to him in almost three months. Instead he gaped at her, realizing that Minako, for the first time since he arrived in this palace, looked scared of the Tsar.

“Do you not understand your position, Yuuri?!” she continued, walking around her private quarters. “You’re his Majesty’s _favorite!_ Do you know what that means?!”

Yuuri watched her from where he sat on a chair, his reply barely a whisper. “Am I?”

Minako’s head whipped to his direction violently, her good eye widening in absolute incredulousness. _"What?!”_

Yuuri gulped, feeling chastised. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Seduce my owner?”

“Yuuri, oh my god, Yuuri,” Minako sucked in a deep breath in disbelief. “You had already seduced him _months_ ago. What you did right now was seduce everyone else around him, too. What were you _thinking?!”_

Yuuri looked away.

“What possessed you to dance like that?” she asked angrily, “Do you know how infuriated the Tsar is? I’ve _never_ seen him like this, let alone in front of guests!”

Yuuri shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t want to tell her his reasons. He didn’t want to list all the thoughts and scenarios that his unstable mind had fabricated. He didn’t want her to yell at him even more and shame him for being a fool. Yuuri knew that he was the only person who was weak enough to believe the voices inside his head, to allow them to manipulate him like that.

There was a knock on the door, and after a loud permission from Minako, Michele entered, evidently drowsy from sleep. “Good evening, Miss Minako-”

“Michele,” Minako said quickly, “Accompany Yuuri to the north wing. Quickly, if you would.”

Michele blinked in confusion, turning his head toward Yuuri. “Is… is he ready?”

“It does not matter.” Minako waved a hand dismissively. “The Tsar wants to see him this instant.”

Yuuri stood, resigned, his nails digging into the inside of his palm painfully, wondering if it was all over, if the Tsar would finally dispose of him and never even look at him again.

Yuuri realized, in dismay, that it would be devastating if he did.

 _Not if,_ the voices reminded, taking away all hope once again. **_When._ **

 

 

* * *

 

 

 “Are you… are you alright?” Michele asked after watching Yuuri stand in front of the corridor that lead to the Tsar’s door, unwilling to walk through it even after a considerable time of waiting.

 _Why would you care?_ Yuuri wanted to snap.

His guard would probably be _delighted_ when Yuuri will get dismissed after no longer than five minutes inside, just long enough for the Tsar to tell him that he was no longer needed, that the mere sight of such a disrespecting whore like himself was sickening.

It was not only Michele that seemed confused by his behavior. Even though the guards at the Tsar’s door were changed regularly, most of them had come to recognize Yuuri, and almost anyone who had seen him knew how obedient he was.

Yuuri was merely relishing the time he had left. He was relishing Michele’s protective presence, the regard that the other guards had developed for him, and the last bit of attention that his Majesty would give him before his life returns back to its previous, unbearable self.

He took a deep breath, handed Michele the coat Minako had slipped on him, and walked to his own downfall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Tsar’s bedroom was unusually dark.

There was a long, brown vest on the bed, which he remembered the Tsar wearing that night, thrown hastily and without care. He looked to the side, spotting a silhouette in front of the window once again, a place where his Majesty seemed to enjoy standing by often.

Yuuri should have been scared of the silence, of the darkness, and of the wine glass that the man was sipping on so slowly, but Yuuri found that he was consumed with a whole different emotion at the sight of him.

It was an emotion that accompanied Yuuri throughout the night, foreign, but familiar, for he had felt it a few times before in the last couple of months, yet never got down to identify what it was.

It wasn’t anger, per se, though it did seem a lot like it, with its intensity and the impulses that came with it. It wasn’t exactly sadness, either, nor helplessness. Somehow, it seemed like it was a heavy mixture of all three.

And most compelling of all, was the treacherous desire to touch him, to be touched by him. Admittedly, it was not the first time Yuuri had wanted that, not since he had seen his Majesty naked in the washroom.

Yet, in the end it did not make any difference, did it? Yuuri might’ve wanted to yell at him, curse him, and then caress his skin in a way no one else should ever be allowed to. But what he wanted didn’t matter, would _never_ matter as long as that golden armlet remained clasped on his arm.

So he stood in silence, and waited as his owner took his time finishing that glass of wine. Yuuri wondered if that one would break too when he dismisses him.

However, the Tsar put it down on the base of the window, half unfinished, and finally turned toward Yuuri.

Blue orbs shined in the darkness, and for some reason, the Tsar looked completely defeated, like he had lost a battle before he decided to speak.

A battle which he desperately wanted to win, because he seemed quite mad about his loss.

“I’m sorry.”

The two words were spoken so faintly that Yuuri barely managed to hear them. His footsteps, on the other hand, were loud enough to echo around the room as they approached him.

Yuuri saw a clear view of the white shirt he was wearing, his nose detecting the distinct scent of roses and lavender once again. He wanted to look at him in the eye and ask him why he was apologizing, but the words were pushed back when two hands cupped his cheeks, tilting his head forcefully as a pair of lips crushed against his own.   

And then, and then something deep inside him finally snapped.  

The Tsar had touched him, had finally laid hands on something that wasn’t some wretched strand of his hair. He was kissing him, not so tenderly like the first time he had, but with such vigorous wanting and anger that matched Yuuri’s own. And he wasn’t dismissing him, he wasn’t telling him how worthless he was, and he wasn’t directing any of his attention toward someone else. It was on Yuuri, and Yuuri alone.

So he closed his eyes, grabbed a chunk of the Tsar’s shirt, and kissed him back as hard as he could.

The sudden force threw the man back a couple of steps, his lips detaching from Yuuri’s so he would look down at him with sheer and utter bafflement. Whatever he saw made his pupils turn darker, striking blue almost becoming hard to see as one of his hands slipped behind Yuuri’s head, his lips pressing firmly against his instantly afterwards.

He pushed Yuuri’s body harder, returning them to where they were standing before then farther back, his lips parting to get a better taste, which Yuuri gave when he slipped his tongue into the Tsar’s mouth almost immediately, having been denied from such feeling his entire life.

The man’s tongue met his halfway, entangling with his brutally until Yuuri could taste the bitter tang of wine. Yuuri’s lips captured his tongue and sucked, hard, relishing the taste of it hungrily.

He heard a groan coming from the Tsar’s throat, and then felt it vibrating into his own mouth as his back collided with the door behind him.

The Tsar’s hand tightened, holding Yuuri’s hair in a fist and forcing him backwards even more, no doubt hurting his own knuckles the more they grazed the wooden door. His tongue licked a sensitive spot in Yuuri's mouth, making him gasp, both from pleasure, and desperate need of air.

He had never kissed someone so desperately, had never even come close to, let alone felt so overcome by such sensation, something that many, many other mouths did not manage to spark in him.

No one had ever kissed him before because they wanted to, because they had a desire to feel his lips, to claim them as their own and savor their taste. And no one had ever kissed him for the purpose of making Yuuri _feel_ good.

The Tsar’s lips slackened, allowing Yuuri some passage of air as he breathed in sharp inhales, the entire room getting filled with the sound of loud panting from both men.

The Tsar kissed the corner of his lips once, twice, thrice and hard, before moving to cover his jaw with even more kisses. He used his hand on Yuuri’s hair to angle his head to the side, his mouth settling on the same spot that managed to nearly turn him blind with arousal when he sucked on it, more sorely this time.

Yuuri pressed a palm on the back of the Tsar’s shoulder, pulling his body toward him to feel it – whatever it was – more, and was overwhelmed when the man’s teeth dug into his skin, biting hard and earning a loud whine from Yuuri.

The man’s free hand gripped on the shoulder piece of his dress, almost violently pulling it down. _“Yuuri.”_ He breathed out, leaving bruising kisses on his shoulder, “My beautiful, precious Yuuri.”

The hand that was clenching Yuuri’s hair let go, cupping the side of his neck, his shoulder, and slowly pushing down the other shoulder piece.

The Tsar’s hands ran down each of his arms, sliding the remaining fabric past his wrists until the upper part of the gown fell on the floor. He grabbed his sides, stroking what was revealed of skin and igniting the familiar fire that Yuuri had felt before.

But his mind wasn’t clouded with fears and apprehension, not this time, because it was now fully focusing on the hardness between his legs, focusing solely on finding a release before it processed anything else.

The Tsar’s hands joined together on the small of his back, pulling Yuuri flush against him. His fingers wrapped around his thin golden belt, the only thing that was keeping Yuuri’s gown in place.

He paused however, his heavy breaths fanning the side of Yuuri’s head. _“Darling.”_

Yuuri did not know why he stopped, he only knew that he _didn’t_ want him to stop, didn’t want him to let go, to go back to dancing with other men and making Yuuri feel those unpleasant emotions again.

Yuuri grabbed his collar, forcibly bringing the man's lips back to his, initiating another kiss that was only filthier than the one before it.

The Tsar’s hand moved quickly, reacting to the kiss and grabbing Yuuri’s wrists, bringing them above their heads and letting them fall on his broad shoulders.

Yuuri grabbed them tightly, feeling every inch of muscle under his fingers, then wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, cocking his head to the side to deepen the kiss even more.

The Tsar held him from the back of his thighs, grasping on them painfully and bringing Yuuri’s legs to bracket his hips. Yuuri leapt on, closing whatever inconvenient distance there was between them to finally feel some friction in the place he needed it the most.

The Tsar then whirled them around, and Yuuri huffed into the man’s mouth as he carried him across the room with ease, dropping him into the feathery bed once they reached it.

Yuuri exhaled sharply, doing nothing but stare in haziness as the man stripped out of his shirt and flung it across the room, proving that yes, whatever Yuuri saw in that washroom was not only an imagination. His owner had the majestic body Angelo always described; the body of an Olympian god. A body that no other man or woman should be allowed to lay hands on.

The Tsar was above him, his knees holding Yuuri’s legs in a cage and hands returning to caress his sides, thumbs running against the outline of Yuuri’s ribs. Their lips connected again, though they did not stay there for long before going down to his chest, sucking and bruising a trail until they reached Yuuri’s pelvic bone.

Yuuri’s own hands couldn’t resist, as one of them grasped the Tsar’s bicep and the other pressed on the muscles on his shoulder blade, not knowing what else to do but _touch_ and _feel._

The Tsar pulled back suddenly, forcing Yuuri’s hands to fall and his eyes to narrow in impatience.

“I’m going to make you feel so much pleasure you’ll faint.” The Tsar said, looking at him daringly, his lips glistering, bruised from Yuuri’s. “Do you want that?”

Yuuri sat up, his body fueled with nothing but desire and mind still completely clouded. He grabbed the man by his shoulders once again, forcing him to bend down into another hungry kiss.

He felt hard hands on his wrists again, holding them down with just enough force to press Yuuri flat on the bed, breathless and gasping.

The Tsar’s eyes sharpened, his words coming out louder. “Do you _want_ that?”

“Ye-” he panted, “Yes-”

The affirmation was swallowed by the Tsar’s hard mouth on his, the words turning into content sighs. His hands reached down to lift Yuuri’s lower body, gripping on his behind and stimulating Yuuri in a way he never thought such a simple touch could.

The belt was finally loosened, Yuuri’s gown coming apart as the Tsar finally stripped it off of him, sliding the tight undergarment past Yuuri’s hips and down his legs until he was completely bare.

It was almost poetic; how Yuuri’s gown was as black as midnight this time, the opposite of the white one that he should have worn when this happened.

So many people had seen him naked, had stripped him down and examined every part of him with critical, piercing eyes, but it was nothing similar to this, for his owner was ogling every inch of Yuuri’s naked skin as if he was a hungered man eyeing a feast.

 _“Beautiful.”_ He whispered, kissing Yuuri’s shoulder and chest over, and over again. “Beautiful and all mine. Mine alone.”

The Tsar suddenly grabbed his arm and flipped Yuuri over on his stomach, catching him by surprise and latching on the skin on Yuuri’s back, covering it with a wet trail of his lips.

He kissed down Yuuri’s spine, sucking on the dip of his back and grabbing him by the waist, pulling Yuuri toward him and forcing him to balance on his forearms.

Yuuri heard rustling behind him and his mind cleared just enough for him to remember the consequences of what he was doing without any resistance.

The Tsar parted his cheeks and Yuuri’s heart fell to his stomach.

He hadn’t prepared himself, Yuuri realized, little dozes of panic pouring into his being like cold, freezing water. He hadn’t touched himself before he came. He hadn’t braced himself for the overwhelming _pain_ that he would surely experience.

But he didn’t _want_ any more pain, he had enough of it. He only wanted the pleasure the Tsar promised him. He only wanted those sick desires to be sedated before his wits returned, before the voices started singing songs that would crush him mentally all over again.

 _‘It will be painful.’_ A Madam reminded him. _‘It always is.’_

 _No,_ Yuuri pleaded. _No, please no,_ **_please_** ** _-_**

 _“Ah!”_ he gasped, back arching as he felt something in his entrance, filling him with a sensation he had never experienced before.

It was wet, thick, and it slipped in without much resistance, rubbing the walls of Yuuri’s entrance and allowing excitement to rummage through his being.

It wasn’t a finger, and it certainly wasn’t a shaft, either. It was hard, muscular, and Yuuri wanted to feel it more.

The Tsar’s tongue continued its ministrations, blinding Yuuri’s eyes with every movement. Yuuri was aware that he was overly sensitive, but he never knew the true extent of it until that moment.

He felt a hand brushing around his thigh, slowly reaching for the place that demanded most of the attention, so much that Yuuri was starting to lose focus on anything else.

“Your-” Yuuri sucked in a sharp breath when the Tsar’s tongue curled inside him, “Your majes-”

The Tsar’s tongue pulled out of Yuuri’s entrance, mouth kissing Yuuri’s behind then traveling to his back, gradually ascending until it reached the nape of Yuuri’s neck.   

His hand finally, _finally_ wrapped around Yuuri’s cock, causing him to hang his head and whine loudly when his Majesty didn’t do anything else but apply pressure.

The Tsar grabbed him by the jaw, lifting Yuuri’s upper body until his mouth was against Yuuri’s ear.

“My name.” The Tsar groaned. “Call me by my _name.”_

“Vi... Vi-” Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut, his desperation reaching its high. His tongue finally got rid of that knot that refused to untie for the past three months. _“Victor!_ Victor, _please!_ I need… I need… _Victor._ ”

Victor’s grip loosened on his jaw as he kissed Yuuri’s cheek with a loud sound, pleased. All touch was gone from Yuuri’s skin, making him shiver from the lack of heat and desire. He saw Victor shuffle around the room, the leather pants he was wearing hanging low on his hips as he grabbed a bottle on the nightstand, returning to Yuuri’s side before he even blinked.

“Straighten your back for me, darling.” He heard Victor say softly behind him, and Yuuri obliged, bracing himself on weak knees.

Victor kissed him on the nape of his neck the same time Yuuri felt a wet, slippery finger rubbing on his entrance, redirecting all the blood back into Yuuri’s cock as it stood stiffly, so hard it almost hurt.

His finger was thin and long, reaching places Yuuri never dared to discover before, making it feel much better because the new sensation gave a far bigger impact.

And then, and then the tip of Victor’s finger grazed his spot and Yuuri groaned from the almost sinful stimulation, the low sound turning into a loud, shameless moan when another finger joined, curling around the same spot without falter.

Victor was speaking to him in low whispers, Yuuri noted, not hearing any of it because he was too overwhelmed to understand anything other than the fingers moving so skillfully and painlessly inside him, turning him mad with each careful addition until Yuuri felt more opened than he ever had before.

 _“Victor.”_ He whined once again, the call working as he hoped it would when Victor’s fingers finally slipped out slowly, all four of them.

He sensed frantic movements behind him and Yuuri was ready, he was ready to finally rid himself of the burden that had accompanied him for so long, the lie that only he believed in, and the shackles that controlled so much of his life.

He was ready to surrender to his selfish urges, at least for once in his miserable existence, to experience what everyone talked about, what everyone fantasized of.

His hole stretched around Victor’s cock, which was entering him so, so gradually that Yuuri was breathless of the little freedom that came with it. He was free of something at last. He was free of his pride that haunted him like a curse for so long.

“Yuuri,” Victor inhaled heavily against the skin of his neck. “Yuuri, _breathe.”_

He knew how to breathe in this position. It was one of the first things he was taught since he was claimed as a sex slave. He didn’t need Victor to remind him, didn’t want him to sound like the godforsaken Madams that ruined his life.

Yuuri took him all in, feeling so filled, and so astounded by the lack of pain.

He started making filthy noises without an ounce of shame, loud enough to fill the entire room when Victor started moving, providing a delicious friction and hitting the spot that was driving him mad repeatedly and brutally.

Victor was moaning his name, whispering obscene things, calling him with titles he did not deserve, voicing confessions that went from one ear to another because they did not make any sense or sound like words of a sane man.

He grabbed Yuuri’s cock, adding to the existing pleasure and stroking hard, hard enough to send Yuuri into a state of absolute ecstasy.  

And Yuuri was beginning to understand, he was beginning to understand why those demons created harems, why they forced young boys and girls into sex slavery, and why concubines had to exist in this cruel world.

He was screaming, he was shouting Victor’s name, he was allowing his climax to shatter him, to tear him apart.

 _Aki_ was snarling, displeased and angry that she couldn’t fulfill her vengeance, promising him to come back soon and make him regret it.

Victor was speaking to him, filling Yuuri’s ears with endearments, apologies, and words of remorse.

He didn’t understand why Victor was apologizing to him, since for the first time in thirteen long and torturous years, Yuuri felt _alive._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\+ La Chute du Prince Charmant:** The Fall of Prince Charming
> 
>  **\+ Ser:** Honorific used for knights
> 
>  **\+ Changshan:** Chinese traditional outfit
> 
>  **\+ Yuuri's outfit and choker:**[image](https://image.prntscr.com/image/JSis6WhwSbKjTYyEp3aMwQ.png)
> 
> **\+ The music Victor played (And Yurio's performance theme):** On Love: [Agape](https://youtu.be/htMfKS_95TY) (Violin version by Martha Psyko)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri Breaking](http://shitsumon-abound.tumblr.com/post/162273789932/his-was-gold-by-al-killer)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Aki's Wrath](http://shitsumon-abound.tumblr.com/post/162396219142/aki-al-killer)
> 
> (Both of these drawing were made by the amazing [Kou](http://shitsumon-abound.tumblr.com))
> 
> **\+ Some Gifs I made:** [Post](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/163428021275/chapter-six-of-his-was-gold-is-out-hope-you)
> 
> **\+ Alternative song for this chapter:** Lindsey Stirling - [Shatter Me](https://youtu.be/49tpIMDy9BE)
> 
> I absolutely adore this song and special thanks to [fadedstar24 ](https://fadedstar24.tumblr.com/) for suggesting it. It fits this chapter BEAUTIFULLY:
> 
> _If I break the glass, then I'll have to fly_   
>  _There's no one to catch me if I take a dive_   
>  _I'm scared of changing, the days stay the same_   
>  _The world is spinning but only in gray_   
>  _-_   
>  _Somebody shine a light_   
>  _I'm frozen by the fear in me_   
>  ****  
>  _Somebody make me feel alive_   
>  _And shatter me_   
> 


	7. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for all the ones who haven't given up on this fic and continued to show support for almost half a year. Each and every one of you has been nothing short of incredible.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  ****Disclaimer:** Check the end notes for trigger warnings in case you can't handle potentially distressing material related to mental illness. (The warnings contain heavy spoilers)

_Regrets collect, like old friends_

_Here to relive your darkest moments_

_I can see no way, I can see no way_

_-_

_Every demon wants his pound of flesh_

_But I like to keep some things to myself_

  _-_  

_I’m damned if I do, and I’m damned if I don’t_

_So here’s to drinks in the dark_

_At the end of my rope_

_**Florence + The Machine** **-**_ **[ _Shake It Out_](https://youtu.be/WbN0nX61rIs)**

 

* * *

 

 

The yard at the back of their palace in Hasetsu had the most beautiful view of the sea, Yuuri remembered, his wretched past taking advantage of the slightest crack in his walls and forcing its appearance behind his closed eyelids once again.

Yuuri, barely eight years of age, had allowed himself to admire the reflection of the sun across the waters that late afternoon, for it was such a pretty thing to look at during that time of the day.

His hair that had then reached a little below his shoulders - something his mother would have loved to see - was bouncing with the wind in its loosely tied ponytail. Yuuri was trying to brush the strands away from his face when his ears detected a collection of familiar, comforting sounds: the tension of a string, a _twang,_ and a loud _thud._

Mari’s eyes were sharp, and the shine in them was dangerous as she released another arrow into the air, unsurprisingly hitting the middle of the target across the yard in perfect aim. It was a scene that Yuuri had witnessed countless of times before, a scene that rarely had any other outcome.

His teachers had praised Yuuri for being somewhat a decent dancer for his age, but Mari, Mari was one of the best archers in the empire.

Yuuri didn't understand the joy she found in it back then; the whole practice seemed uneventful, boring, and with Mari’s skills, it was one of the most repetitive and predictable things to watch.

Mari’s arrows were at least decorated with colorful feathers that Yuuri liked to follow with his eyes when they were shot, creating a fascinating red flash for fractions of a second every time. His older sister was fond of the color red, and had a hobby of collecting every feather with a similar shade and attaching it to the head of her arrows as her signature. Yuuri requested her to at least use one blue feather, for once, but she had refused, and thus Yuuri lost interest in that too eventually.

In those early, clueless years, he did not see many things. He did not notice that nearly all the feathers, although collected from different birds, had the same dark intensity of color when the arrows attached to the target. He did not take any time to observe how they were dressed with an additional pigment, rendered only by the blood from Mari’s tired and wounded fingers due to her excessive, brutal practice that day.

 _‘What's the matter, Yuuri?’_ Mari had asked, not bothering to look at him. She was busy grabbing another arrow without even checking where the previous one had landed.

The target was overflowing, with little to no space left for any more assault, but she did not seem to care.

 _‘You didn't come with me to the_ **_Meinichi_ ** _today.’_

 _‘I know. I'm sorry.’_ She lowered her bow, her lips thinning. _‘But Ane-sama does not like it when people see her cry, Yuuri. It's a sign of weakness. Though, I’m sure you did well on your own, didn't you?’_

 _‘I didn't cry, either.’_ Because he did not know where he was taken that morning, or why. But Yuuri did not admit that. _‘Everyone else did.’_

 _‘I hope you never have to cry from sorrow, Yuuri.’_ She sighed, softly adding: _‘I hope you never become old enough to understand what it is.’_

 _‘It was about Oka-sama and Otou-sama,’_ Yuuri explained, showing her that he wasn't completely ignorant, even if he was only repeating what he was told word by word. _‘We went to the cemetery and I put flowers on their graves. We then prayed to honor their souls and for the Buddha to protect the rest of us from_ **_Aki.’_ **

Mari did not respond to that, but only turned her head away and shot three more arrows with unmerciful speed.

_‘Ane-sama?’_

_‘What is it?’_ her tone was harsh, harsher than he expected.

Yuuri looked down nervously, fiddling with his own fingers and remembering, with dismay, the whispered conversations that flew back and forth that day when people thought he wasn't trying to listen. _‘Are you… are you going to leave me too?’_

Yuuri couldn't remember the last time Mari had missed, but the moment he voiced his question, her arrow had flown as far as it could from where it was supposed to land.

Mari looked at him straight in the eye for the first time during that conversation. _‘Who said that nonsense to you?!’_

Yuuri looked away. _‘The clergy.’_

 _‘The clergy also said that I wouldn't reach enlightenment because I have scabs, Yuuri.’_ Mari chastised, although he didn't understand what that meant. _‘I would never leave-’_

 _‘That's what Minako-sensei said,’_ Yuuri cut her off. He was tired of everyone constantly lying to him. He had enough of it. _‘That's what Oka-sama and Otou-sama said.’_

 _‘You're too young to understand what's happening.’_ Mari fixed her bow in place once again, sliding an arrow fluidly against her index finger, the battered finger that was covered with the blood Yuuri did not see. _‘Listen to me. Right now, his Majesty is scared.’_

Yuuri gasped. _‘E-E-Emperor-heika cannot-’_

 _‘Yes, he can. He is_ ** _terrified.’_** Mari added, closing one eye to focus her aim. _‘He thinks he needs me. He thinks that by having me near him, he would be less scared. But I’m not fit to take over our parents’ duties. I will never be.’_ The pointy end of the arrow she shot went straight into the one that was already attached to the target, splitting it in half like a peel of a rotten fruit. _‘Emperor-heika will realize this very, very soon. And people will stop saying such things. I won't leave you._ ** _I promise you this with my honor.’_**

Later, he would realize that Mari was a liar like everyone else before her. And everyone after her.

Yuuri had come to familiarize with it. Promises, after all, were only made to be broken. Yet, he never took it to heart. Not really. He didn't blame any of them; if he could, he would have gone with them too.

Yuuri would spend more time in the yard after his sister was forced to live in the capital against her will, far, far away from him.

From thereafter, she would come back so rarely that he’d slowly begin to forget the tone of her voice, her sharp features, and her proud character in between every short visit. Each a few years apart, at the very least.

The remainder of his life in Japan would be spent entirely alone in that palace, surrounded by dozens of residents that lived to serve him, but never lived _with_ him.

They would never see anything past his titles, or consider him anything other than their young, orphaned noble master. They would never see how his eyes started turning blank, how his voice became less rich by time, or how his face seldom changed from its neutral, cold expression. And none of them would ever hear the echo of Minako’s name in his private chambers late at night.

Needless to say, the yard would become quiet, and the familiar, comforting sounds that he grew to love would disappear and never play again.

And he would finally note the exact point of intersection where the sun disappeared into the sea, and he would begin to wonder, curiously then yearningly, what lay beyond.

And he would wonder if he could, by any miracle, see the remaining portion of the world and leave everything behind, too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A gentle hand shook Yuuri awake, bruised lips mouthed his name quietly in the darkness, and long fingers brushed the sweat soaked hair away from his hazily opened eyes.

Yuuri wanted to shout, to slap that hand away and break something out of despair when he saw the regret on Victor's face and heard another whispered apology.

Yuuri felt like a puppet that had just been brought to life by sorcery, contrived blood running through his veins that hadn't felt anything other than hollowness for so many years. With this new life came a cyclone of emotions that shrieked inside of him, demanding to be unleashed in the open and never get stifled again.

Victor was talking, but Yuuri wasn't sure what he was saying, for his core felt so lively and lush that nothing else managed to grasp his attention. The Tsar held his hand out for him, and Yuuri took it in a powerful grip, praying that whatever his mind was starting to formulate wouldn't come true. At least not this night, not when Yuuri finally found some sort of salvation.

Victor did not meet his eyes, however, and Yuuri was already feeling the weight of everything he had done crashing down on him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

With his knees tucked together, his arms wrapping around them tightly, Yuuri savored the fogginess around the washroom and allowed it to blind his senses. Little bits of foam fell on his shoulders as Victor's hands moved behind him, the Tsar's fingers running through Yuuri's hair delicately as he spread the pleasant smelling soap around his scalp.

He wasn't really cleaning his hair properly, and Yuuri wasn't surprised by that, for the Tsar must've never bathed anyone else his entire life. He had probably never bathed himself, even. Victor was slowly massaging Yuuri's head if anything, rubbing the pads of his fingers against the raven hair he seemed so fond of.

And that time, alas, gave Yuuri the opportunity to think. He was starting to understand why Victor seemed so remorseful, so reluctant with him since the mist that had engulfed both of their minds from sex had begun to dissolve.

Yuuri was starting to understand, and he wished his mind would silence and never repeat its conclusions again.

 _Not now,_ he told himself, tilting his head back so he can feel Victor's calming touch a little more. _Let me relish this a bit longer._

At the sudden shift, Victor's hands faltered their rhythmic movements. Instead, they slid down to rest on Yuuri's upper arms. One hand held him in a gentle grip, whilst the other tightened once it wrapped around his golden armlet. Yuuri then felt the heat of Victor's lips against his shoulder as the man laid a kiss on the flushed skin there. It was ghostly and almost hard to feel, unlike how he had kissed him earlier that night with so much passion and force. Victor seemed drained and resigned, and it made Yuuri's fears intensify; there could only be one reason for that abrupt shift in treatment, he knew that.

"Yuuri," Victor said against the side of Yuuri's neck. The washroom was almost becoming too hot with the heat and moisture of the sizzling steam, yet Yuuri was still shivering. "Darling, I am so sorr-"

_"Stop it.”_

Yuuri snarled as he said these two words, not wanting to hear another wretched apology coming from that man, an apology that would surely mean nothing once the aftermath of this night's events began to unravel.

Mari had apologized to him, too, before she rode on her carriage, out of Hasetsu and Yuuri's life. It didn't bring her back, it didn't recover their siblinghood that broke beyond repair that day, and it didn't make the rest of Yuuri's life more endurable. It didn't prevent her from turning into a stranger, a face that only existed in his murky memories.

Yuuri knew that he had crossed a line that he shouldn't have even dared to touch. He had talked back to a man who expected nothing other than utmost respect and exaggerated courtesy. He had barked a command at his very own master, the emperor he wasn't even able to look at in the eye without hesitance and fear of accidental disrespect.

But Yuuri did not care anymore, at least not then. Not when a part of him that had been caged for so long finally freed itself, demanding its own respect and regard.

Victor took his time to react to the sudden backlash. After a few moments, heavy and taut, he resumed washing Yuuri's hair, this time more carefully. He could barely hear what the man said next in a quiet response.   

"... As you wish."

 

 

* * *

 

 

When they emerged, Yuuri noticed that someone else had been inside the room. It was a handmaiden, most like, for their clothes that were haphazardly flung on the floor were gone, the bed sheets were replaced with clean ones, and the chair next to the bed was now occupied with a collection of garments.

It was very late, Yuuri realized, since he had lost track of time. He took a quick glance at the wooden clock at the corner of the room, and saw that it was three past midnight. Yuuri wondered how long he had slept, drained and spent, after their lovemaking. Victor had surely stayed true to his words, because Yuuri did, more or less, faint once they finished.

Victor, the man who was nothing short of an animal a few hours ago, driven merely by lewd passion and thirst, with a substantial intent on making Yuuri experience the peak of pleasure, was wearing an entirely different face now. He had a white towel in his hands, and after looking at Yuuri with the same expression of pity he had been giving him since he woke, he resumed to dry Yuuri's hair, grinding it against the folds of the towel with absolute care, as if he was scared that Yuuri would burst into tears with as much as one wrong rub.

Which might have been true, Yuuri wasn't entirely sure himself.

Victor was wearing a bathrobe, but in front of him, Yuuri stood as naked as the day he was born. He didn't mind it, not really. After all, his nakedness had been exposed to many others before him, so many that he couldn't find it in himself to be ashamed of it anymore. Other aspects of the situation were far more daunting. He was revising the night in his head, looking into every move he made, every word he spoke, trying his hardest to pinpoint the exact moment he ruined everything for himself. He wondered if it wasn't a particular moment at all. Perhaps his undoing was an outcome waiting to happen, an outcome that had been delayed significantly due to his stubbornness, but it was inevitable nonetheless.  

But it didn't matter; the reasoning meant nothing. It wasn't as if Yuuri would be able to fix it. He had given Victor the only thing that kept him attached, that kept him interested and unwilling to pursue anyone else. Now, Yuuri didn't have that anymore; he had given it up foolishly to satisfy his own needs. So of course, there was nothing left to keep Victor there all for himself. The game that they were playing had concluded, and Yuuri, as always, was powerless and unable to win.

Victor brought the towel to rest around the back of Yuuri's neck, finally granting the shorter man a clear vision. His hands that were still holding the cottony material covered the sides of Yuuri's jaw, the touch burning even through the barrier of fabric. Yuuri wondered how his skin hasn't melted yet.

Victor's face was too close to his, and the heat from his lips was as evident as ever when he kissed Yuuri's forehead, the movement wavering and faint. After a few moments of unsettling silence, their breaths heavy, yet inaudible, he pushed their foreheads against one another, allowing Yuuri to feel the water droplets on Victor's hair as they slowly fell onto his own cheek, moving down to form a small stream that exhibited the tears Yuuri refused to shed in front of the other man.

Yuuri decided to stop staring at Victor’s collarbones and look up, high enough for their eyes to finally lock together. Victor must've not wanted to even face him, because he took a sharp inhale and looked away instantly.

"I have something for you." He smiled duly, falsely, and let go of Yuuri at last. He tossed the wet towel on the floor without care, then grabbed one of the garments the handmaiden had brought. Yuuri saw a brief flash of gold and black linen before Victor reappeared in front of him. "Though, I'm not sure if it would fit you."

Victor slid his arm above Yuuri's shoulder, then used the other to slip the garment on him from behind. Yuuri stood limply as a doll, not resisting when Victor grabbed his arms and moved them as he wished so that they could pass through the sleeves. It was a long robe, Yuuri noted, a very familiar one. Upon a quick glance he recognized it as a Turkish Entari, embroidered with golden patterns that covered more surface than the raw black fabric underneath.

“I haven’t given you any gifts before,” Victor explained, as if Yuuri _wanted_ any of those mundane things, the gifts which other concubines took so much pride in. “This is one of my more expensive garments. All yours now.”

It sure looked that way, Yuuri thought. He had seen countless men and women wear that style of clothing when he was in the Ottoman empire. He saw plenty of it to be able to differentiate between what the people of high status and what the commoners wore. This was even more extravagant than most of what Yuuri's owner at the time - a Sultan known for being passionate about his wardrobe - normally chose to wear. The golden parts weren't only a specific type of fabric, they sparkled brightly and reflected the light on them easily, proving that the Entari had real gold on it. Plenty of the gold he loathed with all his heart.

Victor was fastening the front of the robe with unpracticed hands, slowly closing the gap that revealed Yuuri's chest until it was all covered, the bottom overlapping on itself so that even his legs were concealed.

It must have been a lavish gift from one of the Sultans, Yuuri concluded, for the size seemed more fitting for a man of Victor’s build rather than himself. Not to mention the strong scent of roses and lavender that still clung to it, a scent he could distinguish so easily by now.

Yuuri did not care about any of it. He cared less whether Victor dressed him with clothes worth more than the annual salary of some commoners, or nothing but a woolen sack. All the outfits and jewels Sara had chosen for him were already bought with Victor’s money, so it wasn’t as if Yuuri lacked any of that privilege. And his eyeglasses, which were the most expensive item Yuuri owned, were still, after all, a gift from Victor.

This, though, this _hurt._ It hurt so badly.

All the chosen concubines left the Tsar’s quarters with such gifts, although he doubted Victor ever went as far as to give them any of his personal belongings. Yuuri would have heard of it if he did.

It was as if he was congratulating Yuuri for reaching that far, for putting in much more resistance than all the others before him, and for entertaining the man in a way no one else did.

And it hurt. It hurt because Yuuri finally admitted to himself that he was special, only to realize that he was special in the most filthy way imaginable.

It was not supposed to go this way. Yuuri had thought that the voices were only manipulating him and feeding him lies, but they were right all along. They were trying to help his cause and rescue him from his possible doom. He shouldn’t have ever doubted them. All he did was prove to everyone that he was nothing other than the fool they saw him as.

He regretted it. He regretted it all. He wished Victor had dismissed him like he feared he would. At least it would have spared him from _this._ At least Yuuri would have left without giving Victor a part of him that he would never be able to take back.

At least, at least Victor wouldn’t have treated him like a wretched harlot. At least he wouldn’t be paying him for sex as if he was nothing more than a prostitute at his disposal.

“It’s rather large.” Victor smiled, looking pleased with himself. “Is it to your liking?”

Yuuri looked down to take a more careful look at what he was forced to wear. The sleeves were embarrassingly too long, making him look even more feminine with how his hands disappeared inside them, and leaving only the tips of his fingers to be seen. The hem of the Entari that should have traditionally reached his calves were instead on a level with his ankles, his feet barely looking visible under its shadow. Anyone who would look at Yuuri would instantly know that this wasn’t meant for him to wear, that he was dressed in another man’s clothing. It was nothing other than another sign of ownership. It seemed like even his golden armlet wasn’t enough for people to know whom he belonged to.

 _‘All mine.’_ Victor had called him, _‘Mine. And no one else’s.’_

Victor was also a bloody fool, because who else in the entire world would want him? _No one._ Four years of Yuuri’s life were wasted to prove that.

“I want to leave.”

It was an often occurrence that Yuuri received a specific reaction from people, a reaction he was never able to explain. Sometimes he gave off a sort of aura that made concubines look away and retreat, that caused Michele to gulp in fear and even Bianca to turn to the opposite direction just to avoid him. He never knew what it was, exactly. He never managed to control it or use it when he needed it the most.

Victor reacted that way, Yuuri noticed, he froze in place, the hand that was adjusting the last knot on the front of the Entari stilling. The Tsar hesitantly lifted his head.

“Is… is that so?” Victor asked slowly, as if he did not believe what he had just heard.

“Yes.” Yuuri said without skipping a beat.

Victor pulled away and stared at him with furrowed eyebrows, confused and angry, which was understandable, given the disrespect Yuuri was showing so openly. But Yuuri didn’t care, he had no interest in delaying his owner’s plans, not anymore.

Taking a step backward, Victor turned his head to the side, covering one eye with his hand then running it through his hair, something Yuuri learned that the Tsar did when he tried to calm himself.

“You’re upset with me.” Victor said, making the statement sound like a question.

 _I am!_ Yuuri wanted to shout. _I hate you! I hate you!_ **_I hate you!_ **

“I’m not upset, your Majesty.” Yuuri said instead, his voice not sounding like his own with how cold it came out.

Victor looked at Yuuri as if he wanted to slap him, yet he didn’t. Rather, he tried, in complete vain, to work a smile on his face that was nothing but a small arc, forced and wavering. He stopped trying to seem nonchalant after a few moments, since it didn’t seem to fool either of them, and chose to cross the room in quick, angry strides, passing by Yuuri without giving him a glance and reaching toward the washroom door. Victor opened it with a click, shutting it after him with a loud _slam,_ not uttering another word _._

Such a reaction would have scared him once, but not this time. Since Yuuri had come to realize that Victor never sought actual, physical violence. It was similar to how Yurio acted, all bark and no bite. Yuuri had experienced harsher treatment before, and the Tsar’s tantrums weren’t as scary as what most of his owners did when in rage. It would’ve had some sort of effect if Yuuri wasn’t so completely _numb_ by then.

He wasn’t granted permission to leave, but Yuuri headed toward the front door anyway, wanting to reach his room as fast as he could.

In his blind urge to escape that bedroom and never come back, Yuuri failed to see that on the chair behind him lay two sleeping garments made from the finest of material.

One was black and broad in the shoulders, and the other was smaller in size, fitting a shorter, thinner body, and its fabric silky, delicate, and so very blue.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri's mind, for as long as he could remember, was nothing other than easy prey to the voices and thoughts that enjoyed tearing him apart at any given chance.

He closed the wooden door of his room so roughly he wondered how it did not break, and didn't even spare the time to open any candles before his hands clutched at his clothed chest.

He twisted, he panted, and he gasped, breathless and suffocated as he ripped the knots of the Entari, pulling it away from his burning skin to get rid of the garment he was wearing. A garment which might as well been woven by spiders.

One knot refused to loosen and Yuuri screamed in desperation.

 _Victor was apologizing,_ the voices chanted, freely and loudly as Yuuri heaved and whimpered like a wounded dog. _Because he got what he wanted from you and he doesn't need you anymore. Because that's all what you're good for. All he needed you for was to use you as a tool to satisfy his pleasures, and you're a fool for ever expecting otherwise._

_He's finally going to get rid of you. And he thinks an apology would make it easier for a weakling like you._

_He gave you a generous gift to keep you quiet._

_He bathed you because he pities you._

_You're a whore now, and you will never be anything else._

_You took away your worth by your own hands._

_You've doomed yourself._

_It's all over._

_No one can save you this time._

**_No one._ **

 

* * *

 

 Yuuri did not know how he woke the next morning.

Not that he had a second of sleep that night, but the fact that he managed to stand on his feet, dress, and walk toward the west wing without falling on the floor like a corpse on the way was astounding.

He sat in a dark, lonely corner the entire night, wrapped in a cocoon of his own naked limbs, suffering the rampage inside of him that had unleashed in full force and refused to quiet down even after what seemed like eternity of time.

The sound of his pleas muffled against his thighs as he reached the peak of his undoing, every fiber of his existence slowly being washed out with utter despair. Yuuri had lost track of the time he spent mumbling incoherent prayers in his mentally unstable bubble, every detail of his character detaching from his skin and crumbling to pieces around him.

Yuuri's ears had turned deaf after hearing so many shrieks and bellows roaring inside his head. His eyes were blind after witnessing so many scenes of what would happen to him next, the unmistakable dark fate that would befall on him, worse than anything he had ever experienced before.

The tingling numbness that engulfed his fingers and toes, however, was the start of the worst of the night. He had been through it before, those nightmarish episodes, but never in such intensity.

His rib cage constricted, leaving no space for his heart to rest as it abnormally and painfully raced until he wanted to rip it out of his chest just to make the pain cease. His head became heavy, almost like it would fall from his shoulders and onto the floor at any second. Bit by bit, his vision was getting consumed with blurriness and his body with physical, crippling vulnerability. The sense of impending doom was the worst of it all, the loss of control and helplessness as he was certain, _certain_ that he would die, that danger was nearby, ready to take his life - that, if he completely didn't lose his mind before it would.

He couldn't breathe. He could never breathe when it happened.

Yuuri didn't know when, exactly, the episode had ended, which he could consider one of the worst he had ever experienced.

He might be having heart strokes for all he knew, but it didn't matter. No one saw it happen before. No one cared. No one _would_ care. Not even Yuuri did, for all he wanted was to be left alone and to stay away from anything that triggered it. Diagnosing one of the dozen mental problems he had was the least of his concerns. It wasn’t of any importance.

Denying its existence and hiding it from people was important. He didn't want anyone to discover how truly ruined he was. He didn't want to know how he will be treated once anyone saw a glimpse of his insanity.

He didn't want to give Victor another reason to pity him or make Minako even more saddened than she already was. He was sick of it. They looked down on him enough as it is. Even Yurio, who just entered the practice room with a shine in his green eyes that had been absent before, would look down on Yuuri if he knew.

Otabek didn't even get to close the door after them before the Prince moved toward Yuuri with rushed strides.

"You!" the Tsesarevich exclaimed. He didn't look angry, exactly, which Yuuri had feared. He looked completely determined. "You are going to show me how to dance just like you did last night!"

Yuuri, mentally exhausted and spent after everything that had happened the night before, thought that what he heard was nothing but a cruel hallucination. He raised his head slowly to face the boy, disbelief lacing his voice. "What?"

"Last night's dance," Yurio repeated, "I want to learn every step. And I want to perform it when-"

"No." Yuuri interrupted him immediately, without trying to soften the rejection. He needed Yurio to dismiss the idea completely, to never even consider it or ask it of him ever again. "No, you won't."

The Prince was everything Yuuri wasn't. He was the only aspect of Yuuri's life that was still pure. Yurio was the person that, when compared to him, seemed like a symbol of innocence and untainted youth. Yuuri never felt filthier than when he stood in that boy's light.

Anyone or anything taking that away was one of Yuuri's worst and most dreaded nightmares.

Yurio was speechless for a couple moments, standing frozen in place, as if none of his demands had ever been declined like that in his entire life. He recovered, however, his eyes narrowing in anger.

"I sure will!" his voice was loud enough to echo around the room. "You _serve_ me, pig! You’re going to do as I say!"

"No." Yuuri shook his head stubbornly, his tone dismissive and chill as ice. "That style of dancing is not appropriate for someone like you. You're a twelve year old boy, and a Tsesarevich to boot. _No."_

Yurio visibly flinched, taking two steps back unconsciously. Whatever Yuuri had said must have hurt him in a way he did not intend.

"You're acting just like them!" Yurio seemed so angry, so betrayed, that his entire body was shaking. Yuuri did not expect him to react so violently, but he did. Truthfully, he had never seen Yurio this furious before. "You're just like all the other bastards who told me I cannot do anything because of my position! It must be easy for you, isn't it?! Not having any titles anymore and being free to-"

"Are you _out_ of your mind?!" Yuuri responded with an incredulous whisper, Yurio's anger transferring into his own being and multiplying in intensity. "You think I _want_ to dance like that? You think I don't want to wear a mask and dance about unconditional love and innocence? You think I enjoy dancing like a goddamn-"

"That's enough." Otabek chose that moment to interfere, his voice stern as he glanced worriedly between the two.

"You're going to teach me." The blond haired boy said slowly, in a way that would have scared Yuuri to death if he hadn't been so used to it by now. His chest was moving up and down from all the shouting he did prior. "You're going to shut your damn mouth and teach it to me, whether you like it or not. Do you understand?!"

"Alright." Yuuri said, making Yurio blink in surprise at the dark tone of his voice. He walked deliberately toward the shorter boy and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing harshly until Yurio winced. _There,_ there it was. That familiar reaction. Victor might have looked surprised and uncertain the night before, but Yurio, Yurio genuinely looked scared of him. "When you decide to become a worthless sex slave that’s treated like dirt, it will be my pleasure to teach you how to dance like one. Like me. Like a desperate little _whore._ Would you like that, Yurio?"

Yurio pulled away from him violently, turning his head to the side and looking anywhere but his direction. His entire face turned red from shame and embarrassment. "I- You- You didn't have to say it like that!"

Yurio sounded so small, so yielded, and so unlike the person he tried to portray himself as. He didn't wait for Yuuri's reply before he clenched his teeth, turned around, and left the room. No doubt wanting to never see Yuuri's face ever again.

Otabek moved to follow him before he halted, glancing back and forth between the door and Yuuri, as if he still couldn't believe what just happened.

"His Highness is just a _child,"_ the knight said, his face revealing nothing, but his voice filled with concern. "I didn't want you to teach him that, either. But this was unlike your usual self."

"Unlike my usual self?" Yuuri replied bitterly. "You don't _know_ me." Before Otabek could say anything or follow the Prince, Yuuri had already passed by him and headed outside, not looking back when he spoke. "Tell his Highness that it was a pleasure being his teacher."

It was. It truly was. Only if Yuuri didn't ruin it like every other pleasant thing in his life.

First, it was Minako, then Yurio, and now even Otabek. Yuuri wondered, like the insane man he truly was, who it will be next.

Who will he punish for being good to someone like him, someone who didn't deserve any of it?

 

 

* * *

 

   
Yuuri, consumed with loathing and detest, all directed at himself, tried to get back inside the harem as fast as he was able to so he could suffer alone, where no one could see him. Where he could not hurt anyone else he loved.

If he was half sober and not so blinded by the gale of madness that took over him and was still growing, Yuuri might have noticed the pair of guards standing outside the harem and staring at him directly.

"Where have you been?" Michele appeared in his vision all of a sudden, but Yuuri passed him by, not bothering to stop.

"Taking a walk." Yuuri answered vaguely. Even after three months, Michele never figured out what he did at every dawn, since Yuuri made it seem like his day usually started at a normal hour, not at five in the morning when the majority of the castle was sleeping soundly. His guard certainly wasn't, in any way, aware of his private lessons with the Prince.

"You know it's dangerous." Michele chastised, "If something happened to you, _I'll_ be the one to blame."

 _Something like what?_ Yuuri wanted to ask humorously. _Like a man attacking me in a dark hallway?_

Emil was also present, for some reason, and before Yuuri could disappear inside and hide for the remaining of the day, the much taller man blocked his path.

"Sir," once again Yuuri was being addressed with a title he did not deserve. He hated it. He hated that manufactured respect that was only there because he opened his legs for the right person. "The Tsar said to bring you to him once you wake up."

 _Ah,_ Yuuri thought. _That's why._

He turned his head toward the large window to his right, which was opened to the sky that was still dressed in a coat of dark and dismal gray. The sun hasn't even grazed the horizon yet.

It seemed like his Majesty couldn't wait to get rid of him if he wanted to do it so quickly, if he couldn't even wait for the break of dawn.

He stepped around Emil and continued his path. "I'm not coming."

His answer was met with utter and confused silence. Soon enough, Yuuri heard rushed footsteps and the clacking of armors behind him.

"I- I beg your pardon?" Emil chuckled nervously. The rustling loudened until he was walking next to Yuuri.

"You've been summoned by his _Majesty."_ Michele appeared on his other side, sounding as confused as the other man.

"I'm aware." Yuuri muttered.

"Sir-" Emil’s blue eyes darted between him and their path, his hands moving frantically as he spoke. _"Yuuri,_ what will I tell the Tsar if I came back without you?"

"Tell him I refused to come." Even Yuuri couldn't believe what was coming out of his own mouth so freely.

Perhaps if he managed to anger Victor some more, he considered, then maybe his Majesty would stop wearing that lovely mask and finally reveal his true self to him. Perhaps he would finally act the same way he felt, not the opposite. Not kiss and bathe him, then give him lavish gifts whereas he wanted nothing to do with Yuuri after taking what he wanted. A direct and honest dismissal, perhaps accompanied with insults and profanity, would be so much easier to handle.

“Are you forgetting who he is?” Michele grunted at him, “You might be punished severely for-”

“So be it.” Was Yuuri’s nonchalant answer.

“What’s gotten into you?!” Michele exclaimed in disbelief. “You never act like this!”

Yuuri halted for one second, only one second so he could look at Michele in the eye with a hard glare. “How would you know?”

And he continued his way, not caring to absorb his guard’s reaction to those venomous words.

“Yuuri,” Emil said softly, the smile that never left his face reeling. “We… we still haven’t found your attacker; Michele and I are already in a compromising position. Please, don’t give his Majesty another reason to berate us.”

He was too opened, too genuine, that it almost brought Yuuri back to his senses. Even as the tallest and broadest of the guards, Emil was the most pleasant of them all.

Even though the guards changed constantly, faces alternating back and forth every fortnight, Yuuri still recognized every single one of them due to his constant visits. Emil was the only one who didn't look at Yuuri in contempt, as if he was nothing but a pile of filth in front of him. He didn't look at Yuuri as if he was thanking the gods above for not granting him similar fate, for not stripping away his masculinity and human worth, leaving nothing but dishonour in a form of flesh. And most importantly, he never looked at Yuuri with darkened pupils and a clenched jaw, as if the infamous Japanese concubine was a forbidden asset he wished to use, only if a single touch didn't kindle the Tsar's wrath and cost him his head.

No, Emil, admittedly, was none of that. He was the guard who always smiled kindly at him, who exchanged friendly pleasantries with Sara and tried to include him, who laughed and cooed at Makkachin whenever she tried to follow after Yuuri when he exited Victor’s quarters.

Emil was also the guard who stood outside his Majesty's door the night before, who didn't seem fazed or abashed when Yuuri emerged, every portion of revealed skin covered with bruising marks that Victor had left on him, unlike Michele, who looked away the entire time he walked Yuuri back, his face not losing its red tint of embarrassment.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor of the harem, which was a long distance from the entrance. Although it was too early for the harem to wake, their loud conversation still attracted some unwanted attention. There were a couple of concubines standing hesitantly at a far corner of the balcony above them, staring down with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, trying their hardest to overhear what was being said.

“He won’t.” Yuuri told Emil, reaching a resolve and hating the mere idea of someone else taking any blame for his own demented actions. “I’m taking full responsibility.”

Yuuri was breaking, he knew, he was breaking both himself and everything he had built. Everything that _Minako_ had built. And it felt oddly liberating, accompanied with a sense of disheveledness and emotional release, which strangely enough, not only sex seemed to bring, but also utter and absolute chaos.

His tendencies to self-destruct had reached their climax, and all Yuuri could do was imagine the bittersweet aftermath and climb the stairs to reach his room, the two men he left behind watching him with unhidden apprehension.

One of them, however, seemed much more concerned, afraid, and relentless. Yuuri once again failed to see something that might have helped him anticipate another unpleasant outcome.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He lied in his bed for hours, time passing by like a cryptic phantom that haunted him, a phantom that changed shapes with every blink, short one moment, then long as infinity the next.

Yuuri told himself to be brave, to be brave once the guards came back, once they broke down the door of his room and forcibly brought him to Victor, yelling and screaming as they paraded him around the whole castle, humiliating him raw so every eye could see what happens when a nobody like himself dared to defy a direct order from the Tsar.

But Yuuri wasn’t brave, not once, not ever. He flinched whenever he heard the faintest of footsteps and sounds outside his room. He felt his heart sink to the depths of his guts every time he felt any movement or human presence nearby. Some of it was real, he knew, but most of it was nothing but anxiety driven hallucinations.

But that knowledge did not help his situation since, after all, a big part of his vision of the world was corrupted with such illusions. At some point, he went as far as to secure his closed door with the back of a chair. It was like he was expecting a raging beast to burst inside and devour him.

A paranoid madman, that’s all he was. On the other hand, however, Yuuri’s reasons were somehow valid, since in his current state, he knew that no one would leave him alone after everything he had done. What else was there to expect?

He didn't have a clock in his room, but a sharp ring filled his ears, pulsing with every second dutifully and compensating the lack of the continuous ticking with something far more eerie, something that fed his anxiety to a point where his fingers and toes couldn't stop shaking throughout the whole night. The only thing that helped, or rather, the only thing that distracted him from that horrible sensation was curling around himself, wrapping his arms around his legs and trying his hardest to feel as small as possible.

And he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

So without a doubt, he was utterly shocked when it was close to midnight and absolutely nothing happened.

As the sun went down and long hours passed, as the night took over the sky and the lively rustle around the castle quieted, no one forced their way into his room, no guard came to take him, and no beast jumped from the shadows to end his life.

In fact, the only person who came close to his door was one of the servants who announced that the food was being served. Yuuri didn't come out then, he did not even vocally respond to her call in fear of it being a trap, not even when his stomach growled after many hours of neglect.

Once the danger went away, Yuuri once again became the receiving end of his own mental assaults. It was so powerful, so overwhelming, so _unmerciful._

The wait was the hardest of all, not knowing when it will all start, not knowing when he’ll receive his punishment and having to sit down and anticipate the worst. A blink of sleep was becoming too precious, and Yuuri had none of it, no matter how many times he tried or how hard he prayed.

And soon enough, a romantic thought of death made its presence known in his mind.

Almost immediately, he jumped out of his bed, crouched on the floor, and slipped his hands under the hard mattress, searching in blind thirst for the knife he stole from the kitchen many months ago, the sharp, luscious, and beautiful blade that held so much power, that awakened all of his adverse cravings every night as he stared at it in the darkness, wondering when he'll find enough courage to end his life, wondering when he'll reach the tipping point and finally release himself from the accumulated sin that was his existence.

Instead, as his fate would have it, the knife was not where it was supposed to be.

Yuuri groaned in helplessness, running the palm of his hands frantically everywhere he could reach, but his fingers made no contact with any sharp metal.

Yuuri didn't understand, couldn't find any reasoning behind its sudden disappearance. The last time he brought it out of that hiding place was weeks ago, but he couldn't comprehend how it would vanish all of a sudden like that.

He remained kneeling on the floor, his hands curling around the sheets of the bed with his face buried against the mattress. It was fascinating, how staring at a tool that could end his life stopped him from considering it, but once it wasn't there, the urge grew even stronger.

In an attempt to find a way to unleash that sudden leaping energy, Yuuri stood on his feet, the fear of approaching the door and coming out of his room suddenly not competing with the urge to emerge and find an alternative to the blade he couldn't find.

He found himself walking around dark hallways at one past midnight, like a ghost, like a wounded creature looking for any method to put an end to his suffering once and for all. Everyone else in the palace was long asleep and curled in their warm beds, unaware of the man so close in proximity, the walking figure who was slowly getting consumed with embedding darkness, his mind flooded with unpleasant thoughts and ears deaf to anything but the wicked voices in his head.

 _It will be tonight, it_ ** _must_** _be tonight._ The desire had never been this loud and compelling. And Yuuri didn't want to miss the opportunity. Not when he finally lost all the hesitance that stuck to him like a leech since he first thought of suicide so many years ago. _There will never be a better chance._ _There is nothing holding me back._

However, the hesitance flourished once again when the heel of his feet touched a frozen surface.

He looked down, surprised to see how far the distance was to the ground.

Yuuri was somehow standing on the railing of one of the castle’s balconies, the garden below him indistinguishable due to the lack of light and the absence of his spectacles, the only thing he could see was a coat of white on top of the trees and bushes under him.

He did not remember how he reached there exactly, but he knew that he certainly wasn't dressed for it.

His bare feet grazed the snow that had fallen unpredictably, what remained of it having been collected on the surface of the railing. His entire body instantly shivered at the realization, as though it was waiting for Yuuri to snap out of his mental cloud so it could respond to the cold properly.

They haven't entered the coldest months yet, per se, but there was no way to tell when snows fell on St. Petersburg. It was, however, the first time he had seen it in person, since he almost never found the time to go outside and witness it by himself. They were somewhere in the middle of November, that’s all he knew. Yuuri, after all, had no reason to keep track of the calendar; there was nothing to wait for, nothing to miss, nothing to celebrate, and nothing pleasant to remember.

Yuuri knew his position seemed dangerous, for he was standing on a stone railing that was thin enough to only support half of each of his feet. But in reality, Yuuri could stand on his tiptoes, even on one leg without falling. His balance was simply too established after all these years of vigorous training. Even if he waited long enough for the snow to melt, the possibility of him slipping and meeting his end was highly unlikely, he knew.

It was sad that years of dancing had prevented the chance of him dying by accident. It was either intentional suicide, or none at all. Yuuri had come in terms with his decision and found himself calmer than he thought he will ever be. He allowed himself to stare at the ocean, a view he rarely saw since he never had any chance to admire any landscapes when he first arrived.

St. Petersburg was truly beautiful, even during the night where Yuuri could barely discern any shapes so far away. The ocean he heard so much about was nothing but a gigantic area of a bleak and shapeless forms. But it was a breathless sight, nonetheless.

Yuuri remembered the days when staring at the waters stirred the hope and excitement within him, and felt saddened by the overwhelming contrast of emotion that all these years had created.

A harsh brisk of wind glided in his direction, causing the hem of his tunic to flap with the disturbance. Only then did he come to the conclusion that no, it wasn't a dream. He was finally, _finally_ close to his finale.  

One sway. One sway across the edge of the balcony and the deed would be done, quickly, instantly, and it will be over before he knew it.

Yuuri took a moment to reflect on every single reason that pushed him to this moment. There were so many he could barely count them. It all started the day Minako had left, shattering all the illusions and lies he was surrounded with and leaving him to face the harsh reality on his own when no one had ever prepared him for it.

And it all just spiraled disastrously from there, when his parents had left and returned inside two wooden coffins. When Mari was sacrificed to the imperial court in their place, returning every few years a whole different person until he stopped seeing her completely.

He remembered years of stifling loneliness. He remembered breathing in the fresh air of the outside world and admiring the docks of Russia, his heart almost bursting out of his chest with the happiness that came with his newly acquired freedom, only to be captured and enslaved that same day.

He remembered the torture, the punishments, the constant disgrace and loss of his dignity as a human being.

He remembered how he lost Minako for the second time for the sake of his own selfishness. He remembered how he ruined his friendship with Yurio and Otabek for nothing but a misplaced grudge.

He remembered how Victor took advantage of his naivety and did nothing but lie, lie, and _lie_ since the very first night Yuuri was in his room. Accepting the fact that he was bathed in such lies during his childhood was far easier, because at least back then he had an excuse to be that foolish and believe them.

Even that wasn't the worst of it.

 _'You're his Majesty's favourite!'_ Minako had yelled at him. _'Do you know what that means?'_

He didn't. He honestly didn't know what that meant back then. Yet, hours of reflecting helped Yuuri conclude that he would never dance again in front of a crowd, not in Russia at least. Yuuri had seduced Victor a long time ago, apparently, and his owner didn't find another reason to allow Yuuri that privilege anymore.

He would've come in terms of being used by Victor if it only meant his protection and the liberty to perform whenever he wished. But the night his passion had returned and Yuuri, for the first time in many years, had performed with no fear, only the desire to dance and impress, was the same night Victor stripped it all away.

 _'A dancer who hasn’t seen the world doesn’t have the right to claim that title,’_ Minako had once told him.

Yuuri had seen the world, but he would never allow himself to claim it, not as long as he lived. He didn't want to attach such shame to it. A whore who couldn't dance anywhere but in an emperor's bedroom, that's what he was now. That's all he'd be remembered by.

And Victor... There was nothing left to remember about Victor. The Tsar would punish him, maybe even kill him if Yuuri himself didn't beat him to it first, at least to save himself a little bit of modesty.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh at what he had become, at how he had lost his freedom to dance, his safety, his friends, and Victor's attention, all in a span of a few anger ridden hours.

What was left to live for after all this?

Yuuri opened his mouth and released a cloud of vapor. He couldn't feel his lips anymore, and it wouldn't be too long until he couldn't feel his feet either. He examined the spot under him carefully, memorizing what his death scene would look like. A narrow path in the corner of the palace gardens, near a large water fountain made of marble. Will he break his neck with the fall? Will his skull shatter and his brain splatter across the concrete? Will he be bathed in a pool of blood before he was found the next morning?

Will Minako cry for him? Will Yurio mourn? Will they remember him for anything good he had done for them? Or will all their memories be of his gravest moments? His good deeds, after all, had never come close to compare with his wrongdoings, so he wouldn't blame them.

Will Victor feel sad? Or will he just sigh and continue his day like Yuuri had never existed?

“Pathetic.”

Yuuri froze in his spot, almost losing his footing when he heard a familiar voice behind him, filled with scorn and displeasure.

He swallowed, his mental bubble shattering to pieces and his eyes detaching from the spot on the garden. Slowly, Yuuri looked past his shoulder, only to to lock eyes with two unique, violet ones.

“Go on. Do it already.” Michele crossed his arms against his armored chest. “You’ve been standing here for half an hour.”

Yuuri was speechless, having thought that he was completely alone. How was it possible that he had not noticed Michele’s presence this whole time? Especially considering that his guard was standing so close behind him in the middle of the balcony, only a few feet away.

 _No,_ Yuuri thought, the calm that had consumed him vanishing and getting replaced with nervousness. Michele was going to prevent him from his sweet end, he knew. _No, not now, not when I was so_ _close._

“You won’t do it.” Michele raised his chin, “You’re too _weak._ You would have done it by now if you weren’t.” He snarled when Yuuri didn’t provide an answer. “You better step down before you get a cold then, eh?! Stop wasting our time!”

Yuuri turned his body around, easily changing his position so he could now face Michele completely.

He had always called himself weak, had always known he was, had always been sure that he could never be anything else. His whole life was a proof of his neverending helplessness.

But the fact that someone had said it to his face angered him immensely. It made his blood boil and his teeth clench in dismay. Yuuri hid it well, spent all his past years hiding his vulnerability so people won’t point it out and take advantage of it. It was already enough for Victor to use him. What remained of his pride couldn’t let anyone else look down on him like that; so openly and mockingly. He could deal with looks and whispers, but this was something that consumed his vision with a fiery red.

“You don’t _know_ me.” The voice that came out of Yuuri’s mouth sounded more like one of his demons’ than his own. “You don’t know a _single goddamn thing_ about me.”

And then, Yuuri finally, finally let go.

Michele was suddenly shouting in horror, but all Yuuri could remember was that just for one second, he felt completely weightless. When the tip of his toes left the railing, all his heavy bones, each of his muscle fibers, his organs and fluids, were turned into nothing but particles falling in the air.

The world turned upside down on its axis before him, then the imagery followed into complete and utter nothingness.

But the universe was laughing at him, because the last thing Yuuri saw, in a half conscious rush of imagery, was a pair of the most comely and enchanting eyes.

Their color was alternating between different shades of blue, as if god had hand picked ingredients from the corners of the sky, the depths of the ocean, and pieces of sapphire to create such an unforgivingly beautiful mixture.

And he was drowning, drowning in those abysses.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri’s back collided with a solid, uneven surface, making him bounce back then hit it harder the second time. The impact was so hard that it instantly knocked the air out of his lungs.

 _“Bloody hell!”_ Michele yelled above him, the fear pouring out into his voice, making it almost sound like a sob. “Bloody fucking hell!”

Yuuri felt the skin around his ankle twisting and burning terribly, and a horrible feeling took over him when the blood rushed straight to his head and he could no longer breathe.

He opened his eyes, panting in pain and at the loss of breath. What he saw wasn’t the night sky he predicted, or the gates of the afterlife he wished to see so badly.

It was still the same view of the palace gardens before him, the empty shores, and the sea. Albeit it was now lower. And completely upside down.

He clenched his jaw, lowering - or _lifting_ his head to where he heard Michele struggling for breaths as well.

Half of his guard’s torso was suspended in the air, above the railing, while the rest of his body remained on the other side of the balcony. His arm was extended impossibly long and what was connecting their bodies was a hand wrapped around Yuuri’s ankle, holding it in a shaky grip, the grip that was the only thing standing between Yuuri and his impending death.  

Michele had never been good with hiding his emotions, for he was very expressive, considering his untamed temper and quick outbursts. But Yuuri had never seen him this disheveled, angry, and so, _so_ scared before.

Yuuri gasped for breath, bringing his hands to his neck and squeezing to relieve the pain. Even through all that mess, he purposely moved, aggressively so, hoping that Michele’s grip would loosen. With every violent sway, Michele’s hand released him for a split second, only to tighten painfully each time.

 _“Stop!”_ Michele yelled louder. It almost sounded like he was begging him. “Stop!”

Choking, Yuuri pulled his free leg away then used the momentum to hit Michele’s hand, but it was in vain, for nothing seemed to be able to separate them. “Let... _go!”_

“You bastard!” Michele growled, “You _crazy_ fucking bastard!”

Soon enough, Michele found his footing and held himself steadier, joining his other hand to the one keeping Yuuri alive. Grinding his teeth painfully together, he used the new leverage and support to lift Yuuri up.

With every inch that brought him back to the surface, Yuuri screamed in refusal, angry tears filling his eyes and his movements and kicks becoming more and more powerless.

“No!” Yuuri shouted when his back reached the railing and Michele was close enough to grab him by the torso. “No. No! _No!”_   

Michele spun them around, losing his balance when Yuuri kept struggling harder each time he regained his breath. As a result, they both ended up falling on the floor of the balcony, Michele’s arms protecting Yuuri’s back from another harsh impact.

Michele was on top of him, trying his hardest to restrain Yuuri even though he wasn’t fighting anymore. The loss was too great this time, and never before did life seem so worthless, never did Yuuri see it as such a heavy burden that he couldn’t get rid of.

“How could you be such a fool?!” Michele spat above him, his entire face red from rage. “How could you let that happen to you?! Have you lost your bloody wits?! You could’ve died and the Tsar would have-”

The fiery red in Yuuri’s vision intensified, turning into a dark, livid shade of crimson. His breathing finally stabilized, the blood in his body returned to where it belonged, and his anger, his great and shrouding anger took over once again.

Michele barely had time to realize what was happening before his eyes widened in surprise. Quickly, he tried to bring his hands together in order to push Yuuri away, but it was too late.

He grabbed the guard by the curve of his armor, pulling it with his hands until he was sure it was hard for Michele to breathe, then he used the distraction to flip them over.

The first punch felt absolutely _exquisite,_ like a forbidden pleasure Yuuri never knew existed. The sweet, sweet feeling of soft meat crushing under his knuckles, and the sound of thudding when Michele’s face twisted to the side, his cheek hitting the hard floor from impact, was satisfying to no end.

 _“Damn you!”_ Yuuri cursed filthily, landing a second punch as hard as he could, then another, then _another._ “Damn you! Damn you! _Damn you!”_

From under him, Michele groaned in pain, but somehow managed to bring his forearms in front of Yuuri and block the incoming punches. Yuuri didn’t care to stop, and instead settled with injuring his own knuckles the more he hit the armor on Michele’s forearms, leaving them dressed with bloody imprints. Which, as it turned out, was why he failed to notice how the man’s legs tightly locked around his, and how it made him lose half of his hold.

“If you could hit like that-” Yuuri yelped when Michele used his chest to whirl them back over to their previous position, with the guard taking back his place on top of him. Michele grabbed both of his wrists, baring his teeth when he had him completely restrained. “Then what the hell do you need _me_ for?!”

“I _don’t_ need you! I never even asked for you!” Yuuri spat back. “You goddamn idiot! You think women and men half my size can hurt me?!”

“Then damn _you,_ you wretched liar!” Michele’s hands tightened around his wrists. “So you _let_ this happen to you?! Do you enjoy playing the role of the victim _that_ badly?!”

 _“Rot in hell!”_ Yuuri shouted on top of his lungs at the accusation. “I’m _not_ a victim! **_I’m not weak!”_ **

Yuuri released one of his legs, brought his knee toward his abdomen and used all of the power in his thigh to push Michele away. It worked, for his hands were instantly freed from the guard’s.

Michele was gasping before Yuuri took advantage of the distance and grabbed the conjecture separating the armor on his chest and shoulder. He started peeling it off of him, hearing the straps break and the silver metal rotating in the air like the lid of a crate. At the right moment, he planted the ball of his foot on the man’s now exposed stomach, not knowing his own strength because the moment he used his legs to push Michele once more, the guard’s entire body flew backwards and landed upside down, a fair distance away.

Yuuri got to his knees and watched how Michele was clutching his gut and looking absolutely agonized from the hit. The reminder of what the guard had just called him, however, made the anger swell inside Yuuri and demand a release.

He crawled toward Michele, throwing his body over him once again and resuming his earlier attack with vengeance. The first few punches were hazy and did not land straight, due to his violent panting and inability to hold himself or even inhale properly. But as his focus returned bits by bits, Yuuri was able to see, in a clear view, how Michele was taking severe damage from the assault.

That wasn’t unpredictable, since, after all, Yuuri knew more than anyone else where it would hurt the most. Where it would bruise the darkest. Where it would make you unable to breathe. Where it would break bones and cut skin. But this time, this time he _wasn’t_ the one on the receiving end.

And after that, he couldn’t stop.

One, two, three, and he didn’t bother to count past that. Under the eye, straight on the nose, at the edge of the jaw, in the middle of the throat, and he didn’t care to note where else his punches landed. Pure, animalistic instinct took over, and Yuuri couldn’t, didn’t _want_ to regain control.

Michele had lost all the fight in him, which was a solid proof that a guard was naked without a sword and a shield. Michele was a fool for not coming prepared to face a madman like himself.

But it wasn’t Michele anymore, was it? Every time that blank, featureless head turned from one side to the other, it acquired a new face.

 _Aki,_ with her dark eyes and brown hair shrieked pathetically, then the first Madam who taught him in China cried in pain. The wrinkled face of the old clergy in his castle twisted for one moment, then the Noble, his first owner, was begging him to stop the next. Bianca was yelling in agony, but she came to an abrupt silence once her face collided with the floor.

The merchant’s grey eyes narrowed as he dared Yuuri to defy him, then they widened into saucers a split second later, his crooked nose turning even uglier when Yuuri _dismantled_ it with his fist; the hardest punch of them all.  

“You killed Oka-sama and Otou-sama!” Yuuri cried manically, “You stole Mari from me!” he drew his fist back, then used all he had to hit each demon harder, “You took away my freedom. You defiled me. You ruined me. You _humiliated_ me! And for _what?!”_

Then the face molded into perfect features, its nose straightening and slimming, the hair turning into an exceptional shade of silver, short and soft. The lips turned full and glossy, the skin became white as snow, the eyebrows thinned and arched, and the eyes, the godforsaken eyes, transformed into his loveliest dream and worst nightmare.

 _“S-stop.”_ Victor coughed under him, little drops of blood staining his pretty mouth. “Please, stop. I… I didn’t do any of that. _Stop,_ Yuuri... _Yuuri!”_

But that wasn’t Victor’s silky voice. It was rougher, deeper, and it came from a man who seemed like he was in a lot of pain.

Yuuri pounced away like he was on fire, yelping at what he had just done. He dropped his eyes downward and spotted two quivering hands in a strange display, so detached and focused that it felt as if they weren’t his own. He winced at the sight of ruined knuckles, an evidence that he had, indeed, done this with his own hands.

He tried to speak, but whatever came out of his throat was an incoherent stutter.

Michele was quiet, frozen in place, and motionless. His eyes were closed shut and not a single sound was coming out from his body. Yuuri had never seen a dead corpse before in his life, but this, this might’ve been the closest thing to it. It might’ve _been_ a corpse for all he knew.

He watched, petrified, and felt his stomach drop in horror when several moments passed and the guard still did not move.

The outline of Michele’s frame was still present in front of him, although blurry from the erecting hysteria that was slowly gorging in into his every vessel and bone. _What have I done?_ he thought. _What have I_ **_done?!_ **

A strange sound, almost inhuman, came from Michele’s direction: A series of chocked coughs that could physically hurt someone by their horrible pitch alone.

Michele was now heaving, his chest falling up and down frantically. He put a palm on his nose then groaned as he used the other to straighten himself and sit up, almost falling back over but preventing it at the last moment.

The sheer amount of relief from that scene could’ve made Yuuri faint right then and there.

“Where… where in the _hell_ did you learn to hit like that?” Michele’s tone of voice was notably different, as if he could no longer breathe through his nose. He turned his face to the side, his once handsome, but now ruined face, then opened his mouth to spit out a trail of blood on the floor. “Ah… Bloody hell, is that a tooth?”

Yuuri looked where Michele was staring at, only to gulp when he saw that it was, indeed, one of the guard’s teeth on the floor.

The sight was enough to finally trigger the last of his breakdown.

Yuuri clutched his hands to the sides of his head, trying his hardest to stop the incoming flow of tears. His mind finally cleared from the fog, and the horrible guilt took over in raging dozes. He had never attacked anyone in his life, no matter how angry and helpless he became. He thought that after all these years, he had become immune to any verbal and physical assaults, but he wasn’t, he was only storing that anger somewhere inside of him to unleash at a man who didn’t deserve any of it.

Yuuri couldn’t forget the look on Michele’s face before he stopped, the fear, the _vulnerability,_ and the perfect reflection of his own features when he himself was under horrific abuse. He had done what villains would do, the villains he spent so many years loathing and despising.

This was nothing but another deed added to his long list of sins. A reminder that he was becoming a manmade monster.

“I’m sorry.” Yuuri buried his face into his hands, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! _God!_ I’m so-”

“Don’t.” Michele hissed, ripping off the hanging piece of armor by his side, then using the fabric of the tunic underneath to wipe the blood that was running down his nostrils. “Don’t beat me into a goddamn pulp in a fair fight then _apologize,_ you bastard!”

He pushed his face deeper into his palms. "I... I..."

“Stop!” the guard yelled angrily. “Don’t you dare!”

“I- I shouldn’t have done that...” Yuuri whispered, mostly to himself. “I shouldn’t have. This… this is _not_ me. I don’t - I don’t-”

“The man who attacked you in that hallway wasn’t me either.” Michele retaliated, curling into himself and groaning loudly. _“Jesus Christ…”_

Yuuri inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut your mouth!”

He looked away, not knowing what else to do.

Michele hung his head toward the sky, taking in a deep breath, then coughing repeatedly after it. Yuuri heard him curse under his breath. _“Why?_ Why in the hell would you do that?!”

Yuuri stilled at the question, hugging his legs and refusing to look at Michele in the eye.

“You’re right,” Michele went on. “I _don’t_ know you.” He wiped his nose some more. “But who would if you choose to be such a liar?!”

“I’m not.” Yuuri immediately said. “I’m not a liar-”

“Yes. Yes, you bloody are!” Michele growled. “And you’re one of the worst too! Instead of outright lies, you hide the truth to fool everyone. Including  _yourself.”_

Yuuri looked down in shame.

“Listen here,” Michele’s tone turned less angry, yet more serious. “No one will bother to know you if you keep doing what you’re doing. No one is obligated to. This behavior will do nothing but _hurt_ you in this castle. Do you understand that?”

Yuuri closed his eyes, “I’m not staying in this castle.”

His statement was met with utter silence, Michele taking his time to understand what Yuuri was implying.

“So this is it?” Michele asked suddenly, “This is why you tried to _kill_ yourself?”

Yuuri chuckled dryly, feeling his walls crack little by little from mere agony. The odd situation he found himself in, the surreal things that had happened that day, and Michele’s strange shift from being wounded to furious was slowly serving to push Yuuri further into an unknown territory.

“Not quite.” Yuuri didn’t think he was a liar, but he did feel self conscious with everything that came out of his mouth then. “There’s simply nothing left to live for; there hasn’t been in years.”

“I don’t know how to talk to you about this.” Michele ruffled his own hair out of frustration. “I’m not that bright. Hell, I might’ve been the one who pushed you to jump,” Michele _tsk_ ed. “But even with my utter stupidity, I can tell that this sounds like _crap."_  He shouted,"You're too young! You have _decades_ left to live and discover, countless reasons you’d find that would prove otherwise. Do you ever think of that?!”

Yuuri shook his head. “Twenty one years were enough. Twenty one years were too much.” He wiped his eyes, glad to realize that he did not let the tears fall after all. “You don’t know what it’s like.” His throat tightened painfully the more he let out, “To be humiliated and insulted every single day. To be reminded, at every waking moment, of the dreams and ambitions that were stripped away from you. Please... Don’t lecture me about this. You will never understand.”

Michele did not reply immediately, only looked away, speechless and lost in thought.

The wind made its way into the balcony once again, making the chill creep into Yuuri’s spine and rake through his whole body, reminding him that he was no longer numb.

“First, Minako expresses her disappointment in me last night.” Michele muttered all of a sudden, yet it did not sound like he was aiming anything he said at Yuuri, or rather, it was at himself. “Then this morning, his Majesty threatens to discharge me the next time I fail to do my duty. Then I get overpowered and beaten for stopping you, my supposed _defenseless_ subject, from killing yourself.” He groaned miserably, his next statement uttered in mock delight. “What a day!”  

Yuuri only stared as Michele fell awfully quiet after that. He stretched his arm to retrieve the heavy piece of armor that he threw earlier, then did nothing but put it on his lap and stare at it, completely neglecting the little amount of blood that was still streaming from his nose.

Yuuri started to feel anxious when he heard the sound of metal clicking, for the guard was now twiddling with it as a sort of distraction.

“Listen, Sara and I…” Michele clenched his jaw. “We’ve had our share of misery too.”

The twiddling then stopped, and the man’s reluctance along with it.

“We grew up in the slums of Naples… as child beggars.” Michele started, “We were two orphans who had absolutely _nothing._  We fought to survive everyday, to escape from the slave merchants who were always navigating the streets, looking for fresh prey to hunt.” He sighed. “His Majesty was as old as Prince Yurio when he found us one day, begging his guards for food and money.” Michele’s head turned to the side. Yuuri saw his eyes watering, but did not comment on it. “He took pity on us, the two lost children who were nothing but skin and bones and tears. For some reason, he convinced his aunt to take us back with them to Russia.

“To his Majesty, it was nothing but a sheer whim, but for us… it was a miracle, it was God finally reaching out and answering our prayers. Our lives had finally started to change; we weren’t starving anymore, we had a roof over our heads, and clean clothes to wear. Sara was assigned as one of princess Mila’s handmaidens. She was so clever for her age, so pretty and polite. I, on the other hand, became a servant.

“We also had dreams, you know? Foolish, fruitless dreams. Sara wanted to become a lady, and to help her reach that goal, I promised her to become a knight. With a knighthood, I would be able to buy our own lands and build our own noble house. Sara at least deserved that much.” There was a pause. “But of course, I failed us both.”

Yuuri itched to ask, but refrained himself.

Michele must have sensed his overwhelming curiosity, because he rolled his eyes, wiped his nose quickly, then clarified. “I’m illiterate.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened at those two words. It all started to make sense to him, as he suddenly pieced together the reason why Michele had never touched a single book even when they spent countless hours sitting in the library together. There was no wonder why Michele hasn’t received his knighthood after so many years, because even though the guard’s fighting skills and discipline had been acknowledged by many, he wouldn’t have been able to become a knight without having the proper knowledge and scholarship of a squire, like Otabek had.

“I planned to learn how to read and write by myself,” Michele explained, “Since the clergy and scholars refuse to teach servants, but I simply couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried. And asking Sara for help… that’s - that’s a jab at my pride. I can’t allow myself to admit my helplessness to her. _She’s_ the one who needs me.” He scratched his head, irritation flowing back into his face. “And Sara... that _reckless_ idiot. She got involved two years ago in a scandal with princess Mila, and look at us now! The Grand Duchess reassigned her as a concubine handler, and I’m still here, nothing but a useless guard!”

“A royal guard.” Yuuri reminded him, since that title was honorable by its own and worthy to be proud of.

“Not anymore.” Michele held the armor piece in his hand, the _silver_ piece, unlike the golden ones that Victor’s guards wore. “I’m not blaming you for that. I _deserved_ to be punished. I failed myself when I attacked you. I risked both my future and Sara’s for nothing but a surge of anger!” he threw the piece across the balcony, then took a deep breath to calm himself down. “Listen, I’m not telling you this because I’m comparing our situations. You serve as a slave against your will. Sara teaches the arts of sex and loathes every second of it. And I… I’m a fool with unrealistic goals, who can’t write his own name, who’s always mocked and shunned by his peers, and who always disappoints his superiors. I don’t know why, but you and his Majesty _saved_ that fool. You spared my life. If you hadn’t lied that night, I would have been dead and both mine and Sara’s futures would have been ruined.” Michele stared at him in the eye, looking furious. “So I won’t let you kill yourself. What would the Tsar think of me? What would he _do_ to me if he found out you died under my watch?”

Yuuri shook his head. “Y- you don’t need to do this. I’m not going to stay here much longer, anyway.” He rubbed his knuckles, “Even if I did stay, by any miracle, I can ask for a new guard. I won’t force you to bear with-”

“Stop saying such nonsense!” Michele shuffled to his feet, clearly finding it hard to stand steadily but being too stubborn and forcing himself to. He pointed a shaky finger at him and suddenly spoke in Italian, his Neapolitan accent - similar to Sara’s - was hard to understand clearly, but it wasn’t incoherent to his ears. “Yuuri, I’m in your _debt._ Do you understand what that means to me? You’ll take your life away on my dead body!” his arm shook, yet his finger remained upright. ”I shall protect you until the day you dispose of me. And you better _not,_ because I’m the only man who can stand you and the bloody madness I just witnessed.”

Yuuri looked up at him in a daze, questioning his ears because Michele’s words sounded so unlike the man he had grown used to. The man who despised him. The man who wanted to murder him.

“I… I-”

“Stand up.” Michele raised his jaw.

Nervously, Yuuri did, worried that his embarrassment and confusion showed on his face, yet scared of infuriating the man even further.  

Michele forcibly took his hand, interlacing it with his own and forming a firm handshake between them. “You and I, our livelihood are connected, so we have to trust each other.”

Yuuri looked at their hands, pursing his lips together and lowering his head in shame. “I… I can’t-”

Michele’s hand tightened. “You can try to. I won’t expect you to trust me this easily, either.”

“You shouldn’t trust _me.”_ Yuuri said, “No one should. You’ve seen how I am. You’ve seen how- how- I’m a _liar.”_ He finally confessed, the tears almost falling at last if he wasn’t holding them back so hard. _Michele was right,_ he realized, _he was right about everything._ “And I… and I mostly lie to _myself._ You have no idea what goes through my head, about you, about _everyone._ You can’t trust me. No one should trust a man like me.”

“I can try.” Michele smiled faintly, the slight movement showing how bruised his lips and jaw were becoming. "As long as you promise me to stay alive."

“Even after I did this to you?” Yuuri whispered.

“I had braced myself for worse.” Michele said casually, breaking the handshake in favor of clutching the side of his stomach - where Yuuri kicked him. He must have been in immense pain, but he wasn’t showing it. “I haven’t forgotten what I did to you in that hallway. It’s an eye for an eye. I respect that.”

“But I-”

“Why are you so bloody doubtful?” the guard snapped, “I don’t care what you think you are. To me, you’re just a coward who doesn’t defend himself. A perverted man behind closed doors, perhaps, but not the so called witch. If people think you’re wicked, then I can’t imagine their reactions when they see how you _so evilly_ spend your days reading books and helping the ones in need.”

Yuuri shook his head, “I’m- I’m not-”

 _"Promise_ me."

"I- I promise you." He finally said, because promises meant nothing. Yuuri knew it won’t help. Nothing ever helped. “But I don’t know what will happen to me… The Tsar, he- he might punish me. He might send me away.”

Michele frowned. “For what you did at the banquet?”

“What...?” Yuuri stilled. “How do you know about that?”

“I heard about it.” Michele averted his eyes, looking slightly more uncomfortable. “You sure are bold... No one could stop talking about the bloody thing.”

The only thing that prevented Yuuri’s cheek from reddening when he heard that, was how his body was starting to feel numb from prolonged exposure to the cold. “What- What are they saying?”

Did the news of his mischief indeed travel so quickly, even before Yuuri himself could make sense of what had happened the night before? Were people mocking him? Were they disgusted by what he did? Did they wish death upon him for disrespecting their Tsar in front of his guests and relations?

Was it the reason Victor had summoned him so early that day, because his reputation had plummeted to a degree where his Majesty couldn’t even handle their association anymore?

Unlike Yuuri, the entirety of Michele’s face was turning into a rosy shade, even reaching far to the man’s ears. “Uh, I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”

Yuuri remembered how Phichit had told him the same thing so long ago, how he was too much of a coward to ask the lord to clarify and feed his curiosity, to tame his worry. But he couldn’t do that now, could he? He couldn’t be a coward in front of Michele, who had just accused him so, it wasn’t an option any longer _._

“Like what?” Yuuri inquired, feeling his heartbeat quicken in fear. “I want to know.”

Michele grumbled. “Don’t make me repeat the filthy things people want to do to you.”

“Filthy... things?”

“Do you want me to tell you how some nasty men and women want you in their beds?! Do you want me to describe their fantasies?!” Michele said angrily, “I won’t quote their words, I refuse to!”

The heat sizzled its way to Yuuri’s cheeks despite the cold, his face matching Michele’s in color. “Oh.”

The guard put a hand in the air. “What _is_ this night?!”

Yuuri’s guilt resurfaced. “I’m sorry-”

“Enough of that.” Michele turned his palm to face Yuuri’s direction, demanding him to stay silent as the man contemplated what to say next. “Listen, Yuuri, are you _sure_ his Majesty was upset with you?”

The question put Yuuri in a loss. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… he didn’t seem _too_ upset.” Michele pointed a finger at him, specifically at Yuuri’s neck. “You might be worrying about nothing. After all, he never-”

“That’s what he does.” Yuuri cut him off, venom lacing his words at the unwelcome memory. He brought a hand to his neck, a useless attempt to hide the possessive marks that Victor had left on him. He knew it was pointless, for they were many. Yuuri still recalled every time Victor’s mouth sucked and lapped against his skin, even when he didn’t want such a steadfast reminder of that night. “With everyone. Why do you think all the concubines are so madly in love with him? I _hear_ things… I know what he does with the chosen ones. He treats them tenderly, compliments their beauty, gives them splendid gifts and then-” Yuuri gritted his teeth. “He disposes of them. He forgets about them. He doesn’t look at them twice.”

Yuuri, unfortunately, knew exactly which step of the cycle he was in now.

“That’s different.”

“What?” Yuuri whipped his head toward Michele, almost missing that quiet mutter.

“He doesn’t do that anymore, does he?” Michele put his hands on his hips. “How long has your reign been? Seven months?”

“R- _reign?”_ Yuuri stuttered a reply. “I’m not-”

“I hear things too, you know.” Michele raised an eyebrow. “Why are you denying things that most of the castle is aware of?”

“Three.” Yuuri sighed. _“Three_ months.”

“Ah, well, he had gone celibate for the other four.” Michele said dismissively. “He hasn’t been with anyone else for more than half a year, despite all the temptations a man in his position has. Trust me, I’d know.”

“It does not matter.” Yuuri shook his head. “It’s not like he did it for me.”

Michele frowned so deeply his entire face twisted. “Then he did it for _whom?!”_

“How… how should I know?” Yuuri rubbed his arm. “It’s- It’s- Just think about it logically: A man like me, seducing the Russian Tsar to a point of insanity without ever attempting to… It’s all too unbelievable. It’s nothing but a tale. The concubines had despised me since the very beginning, and it was they who started spouting this nonsense and spreading it everywhere. The castle residents… they love to feed on such gossip, rumours, and outright lies.” Yuuri pursed his lips, allowing himself to utter the words no one else took the chance to listen to. “All I am is a dime of dozen slave in a sea of many. I started like all of them, and I shall end up like all of them.”

“Yuuri, do me a favor,” Michele clenched his teeth. “Just… for the love of _god,_ shut your mouth. I’ve had enough.”  

Yuuri blinked. “Huh?”

Before Yuuri could formulate a more coherent response, Michele was suddenly swaying to the side. Though the guard found his balance immediately after it, he still seemed shaken, perhaps times worse than before.

He motioned for Yuuri, stretching one of his arms in his direction. “Come closer.”

Reluctantly, Yuuri did, knowing that he had no other choice. He anticipated Michele to hit him and braced himself for it, because why wouldn’t he? Even with the fact that the man was getting angrier and angrier the more Yuuri talked, which was understandable, he also seemed in utter pain. And Yuuri knew whose fault it was.

Michele, however, caught him completely off guard by sliding his arm behind Yuuri’s neck and around the back of his shoulders, putting Yuuri in a position he had never been in before in his life.

Suddenly, a huge weight attached on the side of Yuuri’s body, which was gradually building heavier and heavier the more it settled on him, making his own body tilt to side as he struggled to keep standing.

“Are you - Are you alright?!” Yuuri asked frantically, but realized it was a stupid question the moment it came out of his mouth. _Of course_ Michele wasn’t alright; he had reached a point where he was forced to lean on him for support.

As Michele panted heavily against Yuuri’s shoulder, he realized that although there wasn’t that much of a difference between their heights, the guard still weighed considerably heavier. But Yuuri, feeling guilty and obligated, put all the force into his grip when he wrapped his arm around Michele’s back.

“You… I need you to take me to the nearest infirmary.” Michele confessed, and Yuuri knew it took a lot for him to show his vulnerability, which was, as he learned, something they both shared. To show your weakness to others required someone to either reach the breaking point, or have an immense trust in the other person who was seeing it. Yuuri didn’t know which one he was. “And please, don’t let anyone see me like this, I can’t-”

“Of course.” Yuuri promised, not needing to hear any reasoning behind the request. _“I won’t._ I won’t.”

With a tight, yet careful hold, Yuuri started leading both of them toward the door of the balcony, adjusting to Michele’s weight while simultaneously trying to avoid touching the lower half of the man’s torso, where Yuuri knew he did lots of damage. Michele groaned quietly whenever they made a turn, but Yuuri was trying his best, pushing everything to the back of his mind and focusing on getting his guard to safety.

“Beaten into submission by the man I was assigned to protect… Wouldn’t Emil fucking _love_ to hear that.” Michele muttered sarcastically, sniffing with a sharp wince. “You goddamn bastard... you might have actually broken my nose.”

“I’m sorry.” Yuuri said helplessly, looking around hastily and trying to remember the way to the infirmary. “I’m really sorry.”

“You’re a _man.”_ Michele snarled in distaste, “Don’t apologize for defending your pride.”

Sighing, Yuuri distractedly said: “Then perhaps you should stop trying to make me feel guilty about it. Make up your mind.”

“But it hurts, damn it!” Michele snapped back. Yet, Yuuri swore he seemed slightly pleased by the change in attitude. He eyed the dark corridor in front of him, looking unhappy with the fact that they were not even remotely close to their destination. Yuuri saw a shine in Michele’s eyes blooming all of a sudden, as if he remembered a certain jest filled with irony. After a very dry chuckle, he turned to Yuuri with a raised eyebrow. “What lie will we come up with this time to fool the entire castle?”

Staring into the dim corridor, Yuuri saw a light that only existed in his mind. He turned back to Michele, adjusting the man’s arm around his shoulder to continue moving, and smiled the faintest of smiles.

“I have an idea.”

 

 

* * *

 

   
Dimbo Mikhailov was one of the stable boys in the imperial palace that Yuuri’s heart went out to.

Yuuri didn't know much about the young man, not his age, not where he had come from, or how he had even found himself in his current position. But yet again, no one did. His whole existence seemed like a nebulous mystery that no one cared to look further into.

As opposed to the rest of the stable boys, Dimbo was not a slave, yet he was treated worse than any other in the entire palace, without a doubt. Another notable thing that separated him from the rest of his peers was how his job was not strictly in the stables, but almost anywhere else in which hard labour was involved. He did not look like one, but many speculated that he was still a teen, with an impressive height and a body that was twice as enormous as an average person.

He had a surname, yet not a single family member sought him out over the years, nor did any of his relations claim responsibility. Many residents, including Yuuri, didn’t even know what his actual first name was.

The only information that was clear to everyone, the one open secret they all shared about Dimbo, was that the young man was mistreated in more ways than one, yet not a single person cared to fix it.

Whenever an animal was out of the leash, especially the wild, dangerous ones, Dimbo was given the task to chase them back, sometimes for hours to no end without being offered help, and often sustaining injuries because of it. Whenever a heavier delivery came for the kitchens or storages, Dimbo was the one who had to carry the dozens of boxes all alone. Whenever statues were made to be transported, Dimbo had to move the gigantic blocks, often to every single gallery until the artist was satisfied with the placement. Yuuri had seen the man spend hours digging and moving blocks in the gardens, even long after the sun had set and the weather turned cruel and merciless. He had seen him cleaning endless floors when no maid was in sight. He had even seen him walk up the stairs with people riding his back like a horse, just because they were too tired to climb up by themselves.

Dimbo was taken advantage of by the cooks, the sculptors, the maids, the gardeners, the librarians, and even the slaves.

It was as if the fact that he was a mentally disabled man was an excuse.

As if having a deficiency that prevented him from speaking and being able to understand many things, and him not knowing how to say no, meant that he was devoid of emotion and was susceptible to abuse. As if he couldn’t get exhausted and cold. As if he couldn’t hurt himself with all that work he was forced into.

As if being dimwitted was a reason to strip him from something as fundamental as his _birthname,_ to instead refer to him by a derogatory nickname.

Dimbo was not just effortlessly obedient and gifted with above average strength - as many people only chose to see - but he also had fits that Yuuri had witnessed with his own eyes. There were times when Dimbo got scared and started screeching uncontrollably, clutching at his blond hair, hard enough to plug some of it out of the root, and crying his eyes out because of random triggers. There were times when he turned violent whenever groups of children cornered him and mocked him for his inability to speak, his size, and his appearance, for he was not the most handsome man, and only dressed in dirty rags that barely fit his large body. Lots of them called Dimbo a monster, a freak, a demon, and probably many more names that Yuuri was fortunate enough to not hear.

His behavior was extremely inconsistent, unpredictable, and as Yuuri gathered, quite dangerous, not only to the people surrounding him, but mostly to himself. With all the hard work he was forced to do daily, accidents were deemed to happen and Yuuri did not want to imagine what would occur if Dimbo had a fit at the wrong time and place.

Yuuri and Leo took pity on him constantly, for the two interacted with Dimbo and passed him by almost every day, struggling, suffering, and left hungry. But there were only so many things they could do to help when the work of more than a dozen of people were dumped over the poor man’s head.

It saddened them, the fact that Dimbo didn’t even understand why he had to do all these hard chores, why no one gave him time to rest, why nobody offered to help him, or why he was a laughing stock to the majority of insensitive residents who had nothing better to do other than pick on his flaws, the flaws in which he had no choice over.

He did not belong in a castle, let alone one as massive and as overly-populated. He should not have been put in such a dangerous environment, where he was mistreated and tormented most of the time, and neglected during the rest. And most importantly, he shouldn’t have been taken advantage of by sloths who knew no consequences to their actions.

When he mentioned it to Minako a couple months ago, Yuuri had told her about all the instances he had seen Dimbo being used shamelessly because of his disability. Yuuri knew he was meddling with things that didn’t concern him, but he felt extremely agitated about the blatant exploiting happening in front of everyone’s eyes.

To his surprise, Minako was aware of it all. According to her, she had made a proposal to move Dimbo to a home where he could be taken care of and freed from all the unjust labour, but it was delayed due to the fact that they had more important matters to attend to.

 _‘He never attacked anyone or had a fit where he put himself in danger. Or at least, no one reported it to the council.’_ She explained back then, _‘So it was swept under the rug, like many other mundane issues that happen in this place. It’s nothing new.’_

There was nothing she could do when the abusers were so, so many, and the witnesses so silent and unresponsive. She also had no power to act when the higher officials paid attention to the more urgent issues, the ones that stood out, the ones that would provide a notable difference. They only focused on matters which they could be praised for, Yuuri learned, not on preventing people from exploiting their favorite puppet, their most submissive slave who only lacked an armlet to complete his uniform.

It was sickening, but Yuuri was not the one to talk, for he was also guilty of not caring enough. Minako might’ve hinted at it slightly, but Yuuri still caught the suggestion in her words. He had never interacted with any of the members of the Grand Council, save Doctor Cialdini, but he surely had endless chances of mentioning it to Victor if he really wanted to save Dimbo that badly.

But of course he didn’t. He never even considered it. He simply didn’t care enough. Yuuri was no exception from the rest of the lot; he was selfish, he was insensitive, and he only prioritized his own safety and convenience. Never did he risk any of it for the sake of others, and never will he.

He had no right to pretend to uphold virtue, when he himself had none of it. If anything, he was more corrupted than them all.

Yet, everytime he saw Dimbo struggling to carry four to five boxes at once, every time he saw Dimbo working additional hours for no reason, every time he saw him rushing to devour his food down because he was deprived of it all day, Yuuri’s heart would sink, and his teeth would grit in dismay.

They used to be in the same boat, he and Dimbo, before the storm that was Victor Nikiforov convulsed his entire world. And if he was being honest, they would probably end up on the same boat again. The only difference between the two, was that only one of them was aware of the abuse and understood it, whilst the other was clueless and lost.

Yuuri wished he was the latter. He wished he could be physically able to smile and laugh as much as Dimbo did despite everything. Instead, he was too busy being hyper focused on his misfortunes and lost dreams, hurting no one but himself in the process.

 _Only if something happened..._ Yuuri would think every time he was in the same room with the stable boy. _Only if something happened that would bring attention to this man…_

“Dimbo?” Minako raised an eyebrow, looking back and forth between Yuuri and Michele, searching their faces for something they were both desperately trying to hide. _“Dimbo_ did this?”

“Y-Yes.” Yuuri confirmed, praying to every deity that he sounded convincing. Minako kept turning her gaze between the two, as if she just heard that they encountered a mythical creature. “I put the lantern I was carrying too close to his face. It wasn’t his fault, I swear. It was mine.I knew that fire frightens him, but I couldn’t think… Even as he was having his fit, I did not think of turning it off. He pushed me down on the floor to put the fire away, and that’s when Michele tried to stop him...”

 _“Dimbo?”_ Minako repeated for a third time, her good and injured eye almost matching with how hard she was narrowing them.

Yuuri hesitantly turned to the side and locked eyes with Michele, who was currently being tended to by a nursemaiden. He did not look very convinced either. For someone who had just confessed to being a huge liar, Yuuri was surely horrible at being one.

“Say, where _is_ that lantern?” Minako asked, her voice very passive, almost mocking. Yuuri knew Michele was a moment away from yelling at him for the sheer stupid approach they took, but they couldn’t back down now. “Moreover, what the hell were the two of you doing that late at night?”

“We were talking.” Yuuri managed to say, earning strange looks not only from Minako, but Michele too.

 _“Talking?”_ Minako said in disbelief. “The last time I saw you, you two didn’t even bother to look at each other in the eye.” She crossed her arms, “Do tell, gentlemen, what’s with the sudden change of heart?”

“We were working past our differences.” Michele was the one who answered her, wincing when the nursemaiden started cleaning the last of the scrapes on his face. Yuuri swore he could feel both the man’s pain and annoyance at the same time.

“I think…” Yuuri turned toward Minako and tried to find his voice. “I think this is the best opportunity to send Dimbo away… somewhere where he could be taken care of properly.” He fiddled with the bandages that Phichit had wrapped around his knuckles earlier. “The palace isn’t a safe environment for him. You’ve told me this yourself.”

“That seems rather convenient, doesn’t it?” Minako told him, not looking pleased the slightest. Yuuri couldn’t blame her; he knew too well how she hated being lied to. “Almost _too_ convenient.”

Her heavy gaze almost pierced a hole through both his head and Michele’s, but if there was something they had that they could benefit of, was their shared stubbornness. Even after minutes of having to put through Minako’s obvious displeasure, not all of it verbal, yet still patronizing all the same, both men refused to break or give in.

It was less than a minute after the nursemaiden was finished, when Michele closed his eyes and started to drowse off, whatever medication he was forced to swallow finally taking effect. Yuuri was glad his guard was finally able to lie down and rest, he really did, but the panic had started to rise when he realized that he was put under a magnifying glass.

“Are you sure you want me to send the guards to collect poor Dimbo this early in the morning?” Minako tried one last time, her question coming out as a threat. “Well, Yuuri?”

His eyes widened at that. “H-He doesn’t need to be handled that way!” Yuuri exclaimed. The image of Dimbo sleeping peacefully, unaware of what was happening, almost made him break his resolve. “It wasn’t his fault. It was _mine!”_

“It’s not for me to decide what happens to him. He did, after all, try to attack _you_ and ended up nearly crippling your personal guard! _”_ Minako chastised. Yuuri sank deeper and deeper into guilt when she started yelling. “At any normal circumstances, Dimbo would’ve been sent to a home in an instant! But were you not present when I read his Majesty’s instructions?!” he wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. _“_ _‘Any harm done to my Yuuri, no matter how severe, will be not be forgiven and its punishment is death.’_ Were you not there listening?! Take a look at Michele’s face! Look at your _hands!_ ”

“I’ll talk to him!” Yuuri begged. “I’ll talk to his Majesty! I'll do it... I'll _do_ it!  _Please!_ ”

“Let’s hope he believes your story,” Minako clenched her jaw. “Because I surely don’t.”

With that, she turned her back and headed toward the door of the infirmary, turning the knob quickly, her shoulders stiff and aura dark and unsettling.

Before heading out, however, she shook her head and faced him again.

“Shame on you. Shame on you _both.”_ Minako said through gritted teeth. It was turning into a morbid habit, Yuuri realized. Disappointing her. Angering her. Making her hate him more and more. “Blaming someone as harmless as _Dimbo_ to protect the real culprit once again.” She spat. “I just want to know _why_ you’re doing this! When will you reveal their identity, huh?! After the tenth time they try to kill you?!”

 _The real culprit._ Yuuri put his head in his hands, almost laughing in misery. _It was I. Take_ **_me_ ** _to a home. It’s where I belong._

“What is this goddamn ruckus?!”

Both Yuuri and Minako stilled upon hearing a thunderous voice behind them.

Beside her, Otabek suddenly emerged, looking around the room with a critical and careful eye. Only when Minako stepped aside to bow did Yurio’s small frame come to view, his face dressed with a familiar flush of anger.

“Your Highness,” Minako lowered her voice, masking the earlier anger she had. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a slight inconvenience.”

Yurio did not seem to believe any of it, which was nothing surprising. _“Another_ slight inconvenience that would make Victor murderous?” even though he was asking her, his glare was fixated on Yuuri. _“Another_ bloody inconvenience that left piggy in the infirmary?” he then pointed an angry finger at Michele’s sleeping figure. “And left Ser Imbecile over here with a bandaged face?!”

It was less than a few hours, yet Yuuri found himself wishing that his suicide attempt wasn’t unsuccessful after all. Anything, _anything_ to save him from this mess he had created.

Helpless, Yuuri locked gazes with Otabek and wished the knight did not have such an expressionless face all the time. Whether Otabek had formed a grudge because of what he had done or not, Yuuri wanted to at least know.

Minako frowned at the Prince, _“Ser Imbecile,_ your Highness, almost risked getting a critical injury in order to protect Yuuri.” Her tone wasn’t any less chastising than it was before, _“Ser Imbecile_ has a broken nose, thus the bandages.”

“So it’s _not_ a slight inconvenience.” Yurio fired back.

“It appears to be an accident.” She explained, “Unfortunate one indeed, but its fallout will be minor.”

Yurio nodded, his eyes meeting Yuuri’s once again. “I hope so.”

“Do you want to talk to him privately, your Highness?” Minako offered.

“Yes.” Yurio said. “Thank you.”

Minako bowed once again and headed toward toward the exit, but not before looking past her shoulder with one last chiding look.

The Tsesarevich waited until she was out of the room, then crossed his arms around himself, absorbing the surroundings. Unlike Otabek, who did it earlier on instinct, Yurio seemed to do it because he did not know how to advance after being left alone with Yuuri.

Yuuri, on the other hand, did what he could do best; expect the worst. He wouldn’t be surprised if Yurio started shouting at him and calling him nasty names, not at all, since that was not the frightening part. Yuuri reached a point where he _liked_ being yelled at by the Prince. The odd, uncharacteristic silence was something he found far more unsettling.

God knew what the boy made up his mind on, god knew what he’ll do to Yuuri regarding everything that had happened the last time they saw each other.

Yurio might have been rash, hard to satisfy, and extremely impatient, but he was nowhere near stupid. Beside being highly intelligent for his age, the Tsesarevich was also very prideful and entitled. To cross him almost guaranteed some sort of punishment, Yuuri knew.

“When did this accident happen?” it was Otabek who broke the silence, since Yurio was not speaking and the air was slowly becoming heavy with tension, especially with the dark, worrying looks his Highness was sending Yuuri’s way.

“About an hour ago.” Yuuri answered stiffly. “I’m just thankful Michele did not bleed too much… Lord Phichit said that his nose might not be permanently deformed after this.”

The knight looked at Yurio to further the conversation, yet the boy was still not uttering a sound. Eventually, Otabek had no choice but to sigh and do it himself. “Were you injured as well?”

“No.” Yuuri quickly answered. It’s not that he didn’t appreciate the concern, but the meaningless and forced chatter was almost painful. “Not at all.”

“Are you sure?” the knight sharply eyed Yuuri’s bandaged hands.

“Yes, I assure you,” Yuuri said, smiling forcibly and waving his hands as an indication. “They’re only a few scratches, really, there’s nothing-”

 _“You are_ **_not_ ** _a whore!”_

Yuuri blinked, his mouth clipping shut, and so did Otabek, as these very words almost _exploded_ out of Yurio’s mouth all of a sudden.

“I’ve already told you you’re not, but you don’t listen! And you - you didn’t dance like one!” Yuuri felt so, _utterly_ horrible. Yurio was shouting every word in a rush, yet all of it was somehow heavy with emotion. It was as if the Prince was practicing them all night, beating himself over what happened and thinking of a way to respond, so hard that the words ended up pouring out uncontrollably. _“Why_ would I want to dance like one to begin with? It wasn’t the style that I wanted to learn! I-I wanted to learn how to make people cheer for me like they did you! I wanted them to look mesmerized by me too-”

“They weren’t-”

“They _were!_ You blind bastard, I was in between them! Maybe you should wear your godforsaken spectacles to see! Victor, that idiot, he was - he was completely-” Yurio took a moment to breathe properly, trying his best to sound coherent again. “I don’t want to dance like a whore. I want to dance like _you!”_

A torturous headache made its presence known in Yuuri’s head, so severe that it felt like his brain was drumming against his skull with every fraction of a second. His back still hurt, his chest still ached with every other breath, and his heart, his poor, forsaken heart, was blaring in agony, not used to carrying such emotional weight.

“You're unaware of many things, Yurio.” Yuuri confessed with the faintest whisper, covering the side of his face with a hand and trying his best to not cry from the physical and the mental exhaustion. “Many things.”

“W-what?” Yurio said, a hint of panic in his voice. “What does that mean?”

He sighed. “Listen, there are countless of other capable teachers that would gladly replace me. All you have to do is request one.”

“I don’t _want_ other teachers!” Yurio yelled, stomping his foot in refusal. “I’ve had other teachers, but all they did was look down on my dreams! You’re the only one who made me improve!” his face twisted for a second. “Is it… is it because I yell at you a lot?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Is it because I call you names?” the Prince took a couple steps forward, “I-I’ll stop doing that then! I’ll not curse at you… I won’t call you piggy anymore… I’ll- I’ll-”

 _“No!”_ Yuuri raised his head, unable to hear any more ridiculous things. “Those things do not bother me like that.”  

“They might be very off-putting to people.” Otabek said, defending his prince since the boy was helplessly looking at him for aid. “But it’s just a part of Yurio’s character-”

“I _told_ you, it does not bother me!” Yuuri shook his head. “I don’t want to fail you, your Highness.” He clarified, revealing the fears he had hidden since the first time they met. “You might’ve seen me perform well at a couple of events, but I doubt what I’m doing with you most of the time. I’m not as great as they make me out to be. You’re improving thanks to your natural talent, not mine.”

What would Yurio think if he ever saw him having a panic attack before a performance? He’ll mock him, surely. He’ll regret ever idolizing him. Yuuri didn’t want to wait unknowingly for that day. The day where Yurio would realize the mistake he had made in choosing him so foolishly.

“That sounds very nonsensical…” Otabek frowned, sceptic of Yuuri’s words. “His Highness is gifted, indeed, but so are you.”

“Do you think I’ll ever say these things to an untalented prick?” Yurio added, his tone patronizing. “This was utter bollocks. Stop saying things that make me feel embarrassed for you. You’re my _teacher.”_

Yuuri opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, only to release a chuckle he couldn’t hold.

Yurio and Otabek looked confused, yet they refrained from commenting.

 _“Where_ do you even learn these words?” Yuuri said with a tiny smile. "I simply can't fathom."

Something about that response made the tension visibly cease. He didn’t know what it was, but he was glad that the two boys in front of him did not look as distressed anymore.

“You’ll continue to teach me then?” the Tsesarevich asked. Yuuri should’ve known that the boy would never settle unless he got what he wanted, even without hearing the rest of the sentence. “Or should I force you to?”  

Yuuri chuckled. “I’ll do it as long as I’m here and you still want me to.” He said, not mentioning how he might be sent away very soon. Yurio wouldn’t want to hear that. And Yuuri didn’t want to upset him again. “Also… I’m not ever going to teach you that style.”

Yurio groaned. _“Alright_ then!” he waved a hand dismissively, “But there are a couple of movements that I want to learn from that dance.”

“We’ll see.”

“We surely will.” Yurio bit his lips, clearly contemplating something in his head, which was very, very rare of him.

He looked at Otabek, then back at Yuuri, taking a deep breath before speaking.

“You’ve defied my command the day before. I understand why, but I won’t tolerate it ever again.” Yurio’s tone was serious and authoritative, his words were chosen carefully, and everything he said carried lots of weight. Yuuri had never seen him act like a truer prince and future Tsar than he did then. “Especially with _this_ command,” he came even closer to the bed where Yuuri sat, pointing a finger at his face. “Don’t ever call yourself a whore in my hearing, or I’ll skin you alive, I swear it.”

Out of the countless threats Yurio had made in the months they have known each other, this one, as ridiculous as it was, sounded the most genuine by far.

Yuuri bowed his head, “Yes, your Highness.”

Otabek opened the door for the Prince to exit the room, and followed him outside dutifully. Before he closed the door after them, however, he made sure to exchange a polite smile with Yuuri.

The two boys did not hold a grudge, after all, that was for sure. They were simply too kind. And it relieved him in many aspects. It was like a weight off of his shoulders, a breeze of wind that carried away the anxiety driven thoughts that accompanied their friendship.

He heard a loud sigh, and turned to see Michele, who, to his surprise, was wide awake. “You have some strange ties with the royal family, don’t you?”

In all honesty, Yuuri did not have a solid answer to that. He responded with a shrug, since he wanted to know the truth of it as well. It was something inconsistent, for sure. Yet a powerful advantage all the same.

At least, at least he wouldn’t leave that castle and regret what he had done to Yurio for the rest of his days. Because Yuuri knew himself, he knew he would’ve done exactly that. He knew he would’ve lost countless hours of sleep because of it.

“Do you think Dimbo would get hanged because of this?” Yuuri asked, desperately wanting to hear an opposition to that ludicrous thought. He hadn’t even considered it when he came up with that idea. All he wanted was for Dimbo to be sent away so that something good would come out of that nightmare of a night.

“He’s a disabled man, you idiot.” Michele grunted, readjusting the blanket around his body and closing his eyes to rest. “His Majesty won’t do anything to him.”

Yuuri lied down on his bed as well, taking one look at the ceiling and instantly knowing that he wouldn’t be able to get too much sleep. Michele’s words assured him, however, and he tried to keep them in his mind and relax, leaving the ongoing chaos on a positive note before having to deal with the rest of it. Only, only if Michele didn’t decide to open his mouth again and make Yuuri regret asking.  

“Or will he...?”

 

* * *

 

  
Nearly five hours later, and in a sudden, sharp jolt, Yuuri’s body was forced out of comfortable remoteness and shifted into a state of panic. It was something he was too familiar with; his heart beating out of his chest, the erratic breathing and a pattern of horrible thoughts, in which he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it was not, and should not be normal.  

All that rush, all that unbearable, unstoppable rush of blood, pulled him out of sleep without warning and kept him wide awake, exhausted, and utterly miserable.

The more it went, the more he knew the danger wouldn’t go away, that it was only getting nearer. It was as if his body and mind formed sensors that went off on the expense of his health and sanity.

How many hours of sleeps did he salvage out of this? How many minutes did his eyes have the pleasure of closing and resting? Not much, not much at all.

“Mickey!” he heard a screechy voice. “Stay still, will you?!”

Yuuri groaned, sitting up slowly and rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes. He looked toward Michele’s bed and as he suspected, Sara was now in the room with them. It was no surprise since he had heard her conversing with Michele plenty of times throughout the morning. He could even swear he heard her crying at some point during his sleep, telling Michele in between sobs about how scared she was when she heard about the attack. Yuuri wished it was just a hallucination, a mere part of a dream he saw in his slumber.

Sara was forcing the sleeve of a clean tunic onto Michele’s naked arm, the man himself not looking too comfortable with being handled that way.

Yuuri chewed on nothing and tasted a horrid taste of acid in his mouth. He did not remember when he had his last meal, and his stomach was finally voicing its protests with painful clenching and low growls.

“Oh, Yuuri?” Sara turned to him as she was helping Michele’s head past the tunic. “Did you rest well?”

“Yes.” He lied, slipping his legs to the side of the bed and bending down to retrieve his shoes. He needed to get away. He needed to get out of that room as soon as possible. He needed to find a way to subside the panic before it _did_ something to him.

“Are you feeling well?” Sara was not paying attention and as a result, her hand accidently bumped into Michele’s nose, earning a loud yelp from her twin brother.

 _“I’m_ not!” Michele snapped. “What are you doing, woman?!”

“Sorry, _sorry.”_ Sara winced, finally managing to finish dressing him. She folded the disposed blanked Michele had thrown back into the bed, then turned to see Yuuri on his feet. “Where are you going? You should rest more!”

“I wasn’t hurt, really.” Yuuri did not look their way. “I’m not the one who needs it.”

“But Yuuri,” she warned, “Miss Minako said that you two should stay here until his Majesty comes back. He still hasn’t seen you yet.”

“Of course he hasn’t.” Yuuri said, “He has more important matters to deal with.” He made sure to sound calm and sweet toward her, which meant hiding his disappointment by digging his nails too hard into his palm. The bandages were still there, he noticed, which made it hurt less. Yuuri hated that it did. “I’m going to find something to eat.”

Michele was glaring his way, for he was obviously seeing right through his charade. Yuuri didn’t know any other way to respond other than avoid eye contact.

Sara, however, did not seem to suspect a thing. “Make sure to come back quickly, yes?”

Yuuri nodded, heading toward the door. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”

“No, Michele and I ate while you were sleeping.” Sara told him, looking at Michele with pursed lips. “Should Yuuri tell Emil about this?” she put a soft hand on her brother’s shoulder. ”Please, Mickey, he’s been asking about you all day.”

“No.” Michele declined immediately, groaning. “He’ll worry too much.”

“But _Mickey...”_

Yuuri slyly made his way out of the infirmary in fear of getting swept into their argument. The twins were very attached to each other, in a way he and Mari never were. He liked watching them interact, but that day, however, Yuuri was not in the mood to bear with their overly dramatic jabbering.

The kitchens would be serving lunch soon, Yuuri gathered by glancing at the clock on the hallway, which meant that there would be utter chaos inside between the cooks, servants, and the slaves. He, after all, was in the middle of it quite often.

With that, he realized that going there would only cause them delay and inconvenience, so he had no other choice but to head back to the harem, where all the other concubines were about to be served.

He never ate at the same time and place as them, for he did everything he could to miss such gatherings. The time in which the harem was most crowded, right after the Taking nights, were during daily lunch servings, and getting ridiculed with their spiteful looks and comments was something he always tried to avoid.

It might have been ten minutes, or fifteen, or twenty, but sometime during his walk, Yuuri’s breath finally returned to normal. The fresh air, the quiet, and physical exertion provided a small outlet, and he was glad for it.

But of course, it did not last for too long. He noticed a figure across the hallway from him, moving in the opposite direction. Yuuri raised his head, his heart dropping instantly when he recognized the man.

Dimbo, with his white-blond hair, big, overly rounded forehead, crooked and yellow teeth, and his joyous, lively giggle upon spotting Yuuri, was carrying almost a dozen of empty food trays. So many of them that they managed to form a dirty, greasy tower in his hands.

Yuuri, with everything he had, tried to force a smile as big as the one the other man was giving him, but he was physically incapable of it. He had seen that scene countless times, but never did it have such a powerful effect on him. He was simply too worried, too worried for the man’s life.

What if this was the last time he saw Dimbo alive?

The young man passed him by, and for a split second, his body, nearly twice as massive as Yuuri’s, casted a shadow over him. And Yuuri felt it in his own bones.

At that instant he _knew,_ he knew that Dimbo’s shadow would either vanish at the first reappearance of light, or it would remain a duvet of regrets over his head for the rest of his life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Upon passing the doors of the imperial harem, Yuuri was instantly thrust into a medium of loud noise. Suffocating air made its way into his lungs, accompanied with an unbearable scent of hot food, wine, and fancy perfumes that he grew to hate.

It might have been his imagination, but the loud, rich chitter-chatter lowered in volume with his arrival. Earlier in his stay, it was easy for Yuuri to mask his presence and blend in with the crowd, as if he was any other concubine or servant, as if he was never even there. But as months passed by, it became absolutely impossible. He was far too easy to recognize now, and it did not help his current situation when his hair wasn’t tidied up and his spectacles weren’t there to protect him.

Nearly a hundred or more bodies were pasted together toward the side of the harem - where the food was being distributed - but as condensed as the place was, Yuuri did not bump into a single person. Each and every one of them tensed whenever he came close and did their best to empty his path.

Yuuri regretted coming there faster than he predicted he would, because all it did was fill him with apprehension. _It’s only in your head,_ he tried to reason with himself. _It’s not real._

Yuuri was getting close to where they were serving the food, yet, he couldn’t bring himself to go any nearer. Even _looking_ at all the groups in front of the dining area made him nervous, so he stepped away, separating himself from the masses and deciding to wait until the overcrowding ceased.

When Yuuri paid more attention, he noticed that the laughter and chatter had returned. He was thankful, for a moment, that the people around him were paying attention to their food again and not his unwelcome presence. But he realized soon enough that the noise was too loud for it to be mere excitement for the meal, especially when he heard cheers and exclamations somewhere behind him. Curious, Yuuri turned around to see what was the cause of such strange shift in atmosphere.

It was a mistake, a big, big mistake. Because the moment Yuuri turned, he was pushed with so much force that his already aching back landed on the carpeted, dirty floor.

He felt something wet on his face and heard unified laughter coming from possibly every single concubine in close proximity.

Yuuri opened his eyes and tried to hold himself back as hard as he could, to keep it together under the sudden, yet overwhelming scrutiny. His cheeks started to dampen, then gradually the rest of his face. An emotion took over him, regardless of his effort, a feeling that was so foreign he did not know how he was supposed to react to it.

Eventually, Yuuri gave in. He lifted his head and did something that he thought he wasn’t capable of anymore. He started _giggling,_ which caught the entire crowd around him by surprise.

 _“Makkachin.”_ He tried to steady her, but the massive dog kept on licking every corner of his face and barking happily. “Makkachin, _stop.”_

She had knocked him down on the floor so hard that Yuuri could honestly compare it to when he threw himself out of the balcony the night before. It sounded completely absurd, but if the floor was as hard as the stone railing, the fall would’ve surely knocked the air out of his lungs for a second time that day.

But he was not mad, not at all. He couldn’t even remember the last time he giggled at something, let alone felt so genuinely amused. Makkachin was a lot heavier than she looked, he realized once again, as the two were in the same position as the first time they were acquainted.

“Good girl, good girl,” he praised her, even though she wasn’t, not on any account, being a good girl. He patted her head and tried his hardest to get her off of his chest before she accidently broke one of his ribs.

Yuuri smiled excitedly despite himself, his entire face lighting up due to the fact that this must’ve been the first time he actually _touched_ her.

Makkachin was a very friendly pet, and often enjoyed rubbing her body against Yuuri’s legs whenever he was present, placing her paws on his lap, and circling around him in excitement, always demanding some sort of attention from him. Yet, he had always been too timid to play with her.

Yuuri had never owned a pet; he wasn’t allowed to have one as a high ranking noble, and certainly not when he became a slave. He didn’t get to see that many dogs during his childhood, but every rare time he did, his heart would clench in adoration. He had not a clue on how to interact and play with them, however, and was always afraid of doing something wrong and hurting them unknowingly. Makkachin was an imperial pet and the love of Victor’s life, after all, which daunted him even more.

He managed to get on his knees and, unable to resist the hypnotic urge anymore, his hands slid through her fur by their own accord. It was simply impossible not to take advantage of his position. By looking, Yuuri always thought that with how thick her fur appeared, it would feel harsh and wiry to the touch. But in fact, it was the complete opposite. It felt so incredibly soft and smooth against his fingers that it was hard to just feel content with a few touches, so he didn’t even try to stop himself from indulging.

Unconsciously, he stroke her the same way Victor usually did, touching every spot she liked and trying to be as gentle with her as he physically could. Yuuri didn’t even remember paying such close attention to that when he was in Victor’s quarters, but the more content Makkachin looked, especially when he rubbed the areas under her big, fluffy ears, the prouder it made him feel for doing so.

Yet, Makkachin was still very, very hyper, and was barking loud enough that the entire harem could hear her. Yuuri only had the fortune of seeing the poodle when it was very late at night, so it wasn’t surprising that she was considerably more zealous during this time of the day. And even though he tried to deny the thought, Yuuri still couldn’t stop himself from considering that Makkachin actually _missed_ him. After all, he had not had a glimpse of her in over a month.

He knew that playing with the Tsar’s pet so freely was attracting lots of attention, for the laughter had certainly died down when the crowd surrounding Yuuri realized that Makkachin wasn’t actually trying to attack him.

Yuuri didn’t care, not when Makkachin seemed so delighted to see him. There was something so precious, so heartwarming about it. It was something that made all the events of those past two horrendous days vanish somewhere in the back of his mind for the time being.

He tried to recall other things he had seen Victor do, and in an attempt to make her stop pouncing and trying to lick his face, Yuuri held a finger in front of her and said, _“No.”_

He knew his Russian accent was horrible, but the command worked beautifully. Makkachin stilled in an instant, reacting the same way she would to Victor. Even her wheezing quieted as she stared at him with glowing dark eyes.

“Sit down.” He tried again, and she complied obediently, laying her head into her paws and wagging her tail sideways.

It must have been one of the most endearing things he had ever seen.

It was almost magical, how a dog was so familiar with him, was so obedient that she listened to him as if he was her owner. It made Yuuri feel so, _so_ happy it almost hurt.

_“I didn’t know you could use witchcraft on a goddamn dog, too.”_

_“Tch. Unbelievable.”_

_“Too bad she wasn’t trying to chew off his wretched face.”_

Yuuri didn’t know he was grinning until he stopped doing so, his face returning into its resting, solemn expression.

The murmurs and whispers had returned, more venomous than ever now that they had seen how even the Tsar’s pet seemed enchanted by him. The mean spirited words and waves of jealousy darted in the air, just like Mari’s arrows, and landed on their favorite target in perfect aim.

He almost forgot how soul crushing it was.   

“I missed you too…” Yuuri whispered helplessly to Makkachin, bringing his hand close to her face and smiling sadly when she released her tongue and gave it an appreciative lick. She might’ve not cared about him, not even remembered who he is, really, but at least she didn’t have the means to express that sort of negativity.

He patted her head again, slowly straightening himself and standing on his feet. Yuuri looked at the tables behind him, desperately trying to ignore the intense stares directed his way, and wondered if he could bring anything to give it to Makkachin as a treat.

All of a sudden, Yuuri heard loud and thunderous clacking of heels and turned around to inspect the source. The short, heavy man that had just entered the harem looked awfully familiar, Yuuri realized, as he watched him run with all his might to the side of the harem gate, completely flushed in the face.

Only when he saw the golden brass in the man’s hand did Yuuri remember, with widened, fearful eyes, who he was.

Unfortunately for them both, the man did not run fast enough, so he wasn’t able to blow the royal horn in time to make the announcements.

Yuuri, on the other hand, was entirely unprepared for what happened next, and as a result, all the calmness in him had dissolved completely when he caught a glimpse of silver hair in the distance.

Makkachin had suddenly neglected her position, and was now barking frantically at Yuuri as she jumped high enough to put her paws against his stomach.

It was as if she _knew,_ as if she felt the overwhelming amount of panic raiding his body when he watched Victor entering the harem, leaving everyone around him gasping in awe and bowing as soon as their brains processed his sudden appearance.

However, Yuuri didn’t, because he didn’t _understand._

 _It’s not a night of the Taking. It’s not even nighttime!_ Yuuri shouted internally. _He shouldn’t be here... What is he here for?!_

 _‘He came after his dog.’_ A voice in his head said degradingly. _‘Do you actually think he’s here for_ **_you?’_ **

_‘Why,’_ another voice offered an entire different answer, _‘Surely he’s come to drag you by the hair to your execution. It’s been long due.’_

Makkachin barked at him again, almost on purpose, immediately making Yuuri snap out of his shell shocked state. He glanced warily at the dog attached to him, and couldn’t find enough time to push her away so he could bow properly.

Yuuri turned slowly to the side, toward where he heard footsteps nearing. The next thing he knew, two warm hands were on each side of his face, tilting his head upward until Yuuri was, once again, assaulted with the sight of Victor’s eyes.

 _Blue roses._ Was the first thing that came up in his unstable mind. _God must have chosen blue roses to add to that mixture as well._

Their gazes didn’t stay connected, however, neither did Victor’s hands stay where they were. The man’s eyes, widened and shifty, quickly moved to every spot on Yuuri’s face. His hands, noticeably trembling, were roaming everywhere they could reach; the back of Yuuri’s head, his neck, his shoulders. And Victor’s lips, which were pursed together a moment ago, were now moving too fast for Yuuri to be able to read them.

“... Yes?”

The gaze was back, more focused and intense for it to be considered pleasant. The big hands grabbed on Yuuri’s cheeks once again, squeezing hard enough for him to gulp in fear. Victor repeated his words loud enough that his voice echoed throughout the dining room.

_“Are you hurt?”_

Yuuri blinked, once, twice, and thrice. The harem fell silent, so silent he could hear Makkachin heaving and placing her paws on Victor’s legs, the same way she did when Yuuri was so scared just moments ago.

He then watched the expression on Victor’s face more carefully. The Tsar looked _genuinely_ concerned about Yuuri’s well-being, perhaps even more than Yuuri himself did.

“... Michele.” Yuuri whispered in response, not knowing how he managed to find his voice so quickly. “It’s Michele.”

In a terrifying display that made Yuuri almost slip away from under him, Victor’s eyes narrowed, murderous intent taking over his face. _“Michele_ did this?!”

“N-No! _No!”_ Yuuri pulled away slightly from the other man’s wrath, forcing Victor’s hands to settle on his neck and shoulder instead of his face. The pressure was overwhelming, because this was _not_ a casual question. For a moment, Yuuri was taken with an ominous feeling, a picture of his guard’s lifeless body hanging on a platform dancing in Yuuri’s vision. “It’s Michele who’s _hurt!_ I’m- I’m alright. I’m fine. I’m not hurt at all!”

He was yelling, Yuuri realised in horror. He was yelling angrily at the Tsar of Russia in front of his entire harem.

Before he could see the immense relief that washed over Victor’s face or hear the long sigh that escaped the man’s lips, Yuuri dipped his head in shame, his jaw clenching upon hearing murmurs circulating around him once again.

The whispers have been on-going and frantic ever since Victor approached him, but only then did Yuuri’s ears pick up on them. How could he _not_ hear and sense them, when they were so heavy with disbelief and jealousy, as if trying their hardest to direct all these dark feelings toward him?

This was, after all, a sight to behold.

A hand reached out for his, spiking it with foreign warmth and holding on tight, suddenly muting everything else around him and making Yuuri focus on that point of contact alone.

Yuuri did not look up, didn’t dare to, not when Victor dragged him by the hand across the harem, not when the two passed by the crowd surrounding them, and not when Victor gave them no time to properly disperse and as a result, putting them both too close to the concubines on their way to the exit. Yuuri felt the crowd’s proximity, their heavy breaths, and their undenied bafflement at the sight of him with their Tsar in such an unusual position.

When Yuuri finally looked up, however, it was because of nothing but sheer terror.  

There was a loud thud, followed by a clatter and the sound of a woman gasping in distress.

Yuuri’s eyes detached from the bright red stain that suddenly appeared on the hem of Victor’s cloak and slowly gazed upon the scene. It was so surreal, as if he had witnessed the same event a long time ago in a distant dream, but was now plunged into it as a live bystander.

The wine goblet that had spilled kept rolling, and rolling, and _rolling,_ making Yuuri shiver anxiously at the sound the metal was making against the carpet. It eventually came to a stop and settled next to the food tray that had flipped over, whatever content it held, from plates to food to utensils, were splattering in a mess on the floor.

Yuuri’s mouth felt dry.

 _“Oh, god!”_ the servant who dropped the tray cried, bowing to her waist. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I - I- Please forgive me!”

She was so scared, Yuuri saw and reflected, she was so, _so_ scared.

But how couldn’t she be? Anyone would be afraid for their life given the situation, since almost every resident in the castle had heard about what happened the last time a slave dared to cut the Tsar’s path.

The same slave who went missing and was rumored to be dead. For simply mistaking Princess Mila’s honorifics.

Makkachin, blissfully unaware of the scene around her, was eagerly nibbling at the broth that had collected on the floor.

He closed his eyes in fear of what was coming, and when he opened them again, the Tsar’s hand - the one that wasn’t tightly holding onto Yuuri’s - was on top of the woman’s head, stoking it gently. “Don’t fret, dear.” Victor said hurriedly, but still with the grace of a god. “It was my fault.”

It happened so quickly Yuuri was having a hard time digesting anything at all. Victor didn’t even stop walking the whole time, didn’t slow down a bit to look at the woman’s face, didn’t halt the way he was pulling Yuuri behind him, and didn’t even spare a glance at the people gaping at their backs.

 _Where is the cold, degrading look?_ Yuuri wondered, recalling the last time this happened. _Where is the anger? Where are the venomous words?_

All what Victor seemed focused on at the moment, however, was getting Yuuri outside of the harem as quickly as possible. And for _what?_ Yuuri had no idea.

With a hazy vision, Yuuri realized that they were already passing the doors of the harem with Makkachin at their heels, and started shivering at the contrasting cold of the hallway. He caught the faintest glimpse of half a dozen royal guards and knights, all scattered in front of the entrance, and abruptly, the hand pulling him let go. He heard Victor’s quiet, yet unmistakingly authoritative voice as he ordered the attendance to give them privacy and the world started spinning. He saw a couple of them look away with reddened faces before his breath caught in his throat. Victor’s arms were wrapped around him, putting him in the most foreign and unfamiliar position.

It took Yuuri a couple of pregnant moments to realize that Victor was _embracing_ him, tightly, so tightly that their chests were flushed against each other.

The man’s head was resting on Yuuri’s shoulder, his face on the side of Yuuri’s neck, and arms firmly holding the back of his shoulders. Yuuri, on the other hand, stood still as a statue, with eyes as wide as saucers and ears turning flaming red from embarrassment.

Victor’s heavy breaths sent the sharpest shudders along Yuuri’s spine, for the Tsar’s mouth was so close to his skin. “Bear with me.”

Having no choice, Yuuri did exactly that, feeling Makkachin’s paws pushing on his hip as the dog tried her best to be included.

With arms flat on his sides and shoulders completely stiff, he tried to remember the last time he was so tightly locked in an embrace of this sort. He did not remember much from when Minako held him, for both of them were in such a devastating mental state to do anything other than fight the disbelief of their encounter. Holding on to Sara, on the other hand, must’ve been the complete opposite of this. Yuuri did not recall why he held her, exactly, but he was the one who initiated it at least.

This, however, was so different, so out of place, and so _odd._ Sara and Minako were short, slender, and tiny compared to Yuuri. On the surface, it felt as though he was protecting those two women, blocking and protecting them from the outside world with his larger body.

Victor, with his long arms, wide shoulders, and much taller frame, was doing both the exact same thing and the exact opposite; blocking Yuuri from the prying eyes, yet attracting all the attention towards them with vengeance. He was protecting Yuuri from the ill intentions of the other concubines, but at the same time he was giving them another reason to resent him. Yuuri could already feel passerbys staring at them, bashful at the sight.

“They said that your face was beaten beyond recognition… that your bones were broken… that your teeth were shattered-” the Tsar stopped whispering with that unsettling voice, and instead tightened his arms painfully around Yuuri, burying his nose deeper into the shorter man’s neck.

Makkachin whined, from being neglected, or from seeing her owner so vulnerable, Yuuri wasn’t sure.

Whoever informed the Tsar about last night’s attack had somehow mistaken Yuuri for Michele, and not only that, but they had exaggerated the truth to a point where it could barely be called that.

After hearing him, Yuuri started to notice some tiny details he had not paid attention to when the Tsar arrived. Victor, from the very first moment that Yuuri had seen him, was always dressed with garments that held so much magnificence that - along with the grace he carried himself with - almost made the emperor seem like a superior being. The current Victor, who was clinging on Yuuri like he was about to fade away, whose hair did not look as neat and tamed, whose cloak was stained with wine and his riding boots were dirtied with fresh mud, seemed like he had ridden to the castle as soon as he heard about the attack.

And for his breathing, Yuuri realized, listening more carefully, it wasn’t heavy as he felt at first, no, that wasn't it. Those strange sounds were of Victor’s breaths evening out in slow seeping relief.

An instinctual part of Yuuri had an urge break out of his motionless state and hug Victor back just as hard, if not harder, only to offer the man some sort of assurance that he was alright. But a bigger part of him, a far more dominant one, held back firmly, wanting the Tsar to be even _more_ disheveled, wanting him to be completely devastated. Because if there was anyone to blame for that atrocious series of events that led Yuuri to almost commiting suicide, it was him.

 _‘No it wasn’t.’_ A voice inside his head laughed tauntingly. _‘That was all_ **_you,_** _you madman.’_

Distantly, Yuuri noticed that the voices started flowing back exactly the moment Victor let go.

“D-Dimbo...” Yuuri tried to summarize what happened the way he practiced in his mind, but the words were difficult to formulate. He had to remind himself to take advantage of Victor’s current state, since the man didn’t seem as angry and as wrathful as he imagined he’d be. If anything, Yuuri would never have that chance again. “He… he had a fit and-”

“Darling, your _hands...”_ Victor looked like he did not hear a word Yuuri said, his eyes solely focused on the bandages wrapped around Yuuri’s knuckles. The Tsar’s sedated expression was immediately replaced with a frown. “What happened to your hands?”

Yuuri winced, and not because Victor tightly interlaced their fingers, but because Victor was starting to look angry.

“Please, don’t punish Dimbo. _Please.”_ Yuuri said quickly, betting on the time he had before Victor started shouting and berating again, just like last time. Yuuri sounded so little, so pathetic. But he didn’t know what else to do. “He didn’t do anything wrong. It was my fault.”

Victor raised his head, meeting Yuuri’s eyes again. His brows furrowed deeply. “Dim...bo?”

Only when he heard the name being uttered from the Tsar’s own lips, in that unfamiliar and questioning manner, did the weight of everything Yuuri’s been doing crash on him in full force.

He was getting an innocent man involved in his schemes for _no reason,_ just a slim chance that he might be offered help, the slimmest of chances. Yuuri was putting that innocent man in danger, the man who already had the most unfortunate and hard life, who was already being punished cruelly everyday for no reason other than his birth defects, whose situation was times worse than Yuuri’s and couldn’t even compare. All of it was now becoming a reality. All the horrifying consequences now seemed too real.

He thought of Dimbo’s joyous laugh, his careless smile, and his unscathed heart. He thought of the shadow that Dimbo’s body cast over him earlier, and Yuuri regretted the very moment he mentioned that poor man’s name.

Minako was right, he should’ve been _ashamed_ of himself.

“Do you mean Bozho?”

Yuuri blinked, taken aback completely. Out of everything that he had anticipated as a response from Victor, none of it came close to such a strange answer.

 _‘Bozho’…_ That name danced in Yuuri’s mind, unlocking a jumble of random memories. _Was that… was that Dimbo’s real name?_

“Bozho Mikhailov, the simpleton?” Victor elaborated. He took that as a yes when he saw Yuuri’s eyes widen. “What are you talking about? I sent him to a home months ago.”

Yuuri was rendered speechless for a few moments, doing nothing but cluelessly stare at Victor, doubting every answer he was about to give.

Eventually, Yuuri opted for the one he was most confident in. “No. No, you did not.”

Somewhere in his mind, Yuuri had went in thinking that the Tsar surely didn’t know Dimbo- or Bozho, considering that even though the man had a special case, he was still unimportant. Wasn’t that what Minako said? That many issues took priorities over his case?

“I see...” Victor let out an exasperated sigh, releasing one of his hands to run through his silver hair. “I must have forgotten.”

Sometimes Yuuri didn’t understand how Victor’s memory worked. It was infamous, for Minako had referenced it many times, but it was also confusing. Victor remembered a name that the majority of the castle, even Yuuri and perhaps even Minako, had long forgotten. He also seemed to remember the man’s circumstances, all that while simultaneously forgetting something as significant as issuing an order for his transfer.

For someone who had so many responsibilities to carry on his shoulders, so many duties to take care of, so many places to be at, and countless relations to keep, Victor’s head seemed to develop a very strange system that decided on what to recall and what to toss away.

“So _he_ was the man who attacked you, Yuuri?” Victor asked a final time, his tone demanding, leaving no room for doubts or second guessing.  

Yuuri felt the fear rising again. _Foolish._ He cursed himself, _you should have kept your mouth shut._

“Please...” Yuuri started, looking down at his feet. “Spare him. _Please.”_ He balled his hands into fists, uncaring about how pathetic he sounded. Pride, honor, self worth; it all meant _nothing_ when another man’s life was on the line. “If anyone deserves to take the punishment… it’s _me._ I take full responsibility.”

What a poetic ending it’d be, Yuuri mused. Hanged to death on a high and ancient platform, by the hands of his owner, in front of the many who wished death upon him, even Michele unable to stop it this time.

“You say very absurd things.” Was the Tsar’s immediate answer. Gently, Victor’s hand settled on his cheek, making Yuuri look back at him. The expression on his face was soft, too _soft._ “Darling… I’d take a knife to the heart before I bring myself to punish you.”

Makkachin chose that moment to bark, having enough of the lack of attention she was getting. Yuuri couldn’t have been more thankful for the interruption, because he did not know how much more he could handle.

Victor freed both of his hands and moved them to caress the sides of Makkachin’s head. His touches were ever so affectionate, but his expression turned more serious the longer he stared down at her, deep in thought. “Moreover…” he looked back at Yuuri, unsettled. “Bozho is a mentally disabled man, I would certainly not punish him so.” Victor’s lips formed a thin line, “Yuuri, do you think I’m some sort of monster?”

 _‘Yes.’_ Was the sad, but true answer. “No, your Majesty.” Was what he said aloud.

Victor only sighed, not pleased with the reply. “You said Crispino was hurt?”

Yuuri looked away, “He is. Because he protected me.”

“Well, he had only one duty, after all.” Victor muttered, not impressed the slightest. “He begged so hard for another chance, and here he is, finally proving he’s not completely useless.”

Victor, as it seemed, still did not let go of the fact that Michele was assigned to keep an eye on Yuuri the first night he was attacked. It made Yuuri curious, and a bit scared, when he sometimes considered what would happen if Victor ever knew the truth; that Michele failed to keep an eye on him because _he_ was the one who attacked him that night.

A glorious pair they were, Yuuri and Michele, weren’t they?

All things considered, Yuuri finally understood Michele’s words. It made him look at the guard’s situation with a different view because, in Victor’s eyes, Michele was somehow right to say that he had done nothing but disappoint him.

“All what matters is that you’re safe, my darling.” Victor said, but his eyes were fixed elsewhere, to the direction where more people were accumulating and the whispers seemed to double. “And do not worry about Bozho...” he was frowning at the unwelcome audience, but when he turned to Yuuri, the sweetest smile took over his features. “I’ll leave him in good hands, alright?”

 _Thank god._ Yuuri exhaled a breath he had been holding for what seemed like days, his entire body washing down with relief.

“Yuuri,” Victor’s smile turned apologetic. “I startled my party by coming back so quickly, so I’ll have to go and explain myself.”

Then the whispers must’ve been the rest of Victor’s attendance catching up with him, Yuuri realized.

Victor’s hands suddenly grabbed on his bandaged ones, pulling Yuuri closer until the distance between them disappeared again. The Tsar’s next words were whispered into Yuuri’s ear, the man’s tone completely different.

“I cannot handle waiting a fortnight to see you again.” Victor told him. “Not after what you did to me last night.”

These words could mean anything, _anything._ But Yuuri did not ask, fearing the answer.

“I’ll send a guard for you at midnight,” Victor went on, “He’ll bring you to the north wing without attracting attention.” The Tsar’s hands tightened around his. “Please come.”

Yuuri nodded. Not that he had any other say in the matter.  

Once again, he found himself watching Victor’s back as the man left, Makkachin walking beside him obediently. He felt as if he had done this countless times already, always looking at the Tsar from the other end. The half a dozen of guards and knights were now more than a dozen, as the rest who were left behind had caught up. A group of handmaidens also seemed to have joined, then the the brass man followed hurriedly behind them.

Yuuri should have been embarrassed that a crowd like that had witnessed what just happened, but something entirely different was on his mind.

Victor looked behind his shoulder one last time, like he always did, and Yuuri somehow managed to find his gaze amidst all the people creating a trail behind him.  

_‘I’d take a knife to the heart before I bring myself to punish you.’_

Wasn’t that a very dangerous thing to say?

What if Yuuri had done something horrible? What if he escaped, stole something, _murdered_ someone? What if he had committed any of the countless crimes against Victor and the royal family? What would the Tsar do then?

It was a promise, however, and he knew how it always went with promises.

Therefore, during that conversation, it wasn’t only Yuuri who was lying through his teeth.

 

* * *

 

 

He did not return to the infirmary, nor did he have a bite to eat that day.

If he thought that the attention was overwhelming the last few months, then what Yuuri had received when he went back inside the harem was a literal incarnation of hell.

All what the onslaught needed to occur was one pair of eyes witnessing him in the arms of the Tsar, and it took no more than a few minutes for it to be on every concubine’s tongue.

Not even that, what prefaced Victor taking him outside of the harem was enough fuel as it is.

Such public display of affection, after all, was frowned upon and considered tasteless for a place like the imperial castle of Russia. And no one seemed to put the shame on the emperor of that castle. Only Yuuri was to blame.

Locked in his room, which was starting to become a usual state of his, Yuuri did nothing but wait for the clock to hit midnight, his stomach growling, his knuckles aching, and the mayhem in his mind proceeding, as ever.

 

 

* * *

 

 

No royal horn. No presenting. No handmaidens. No garments or accessories. Yuuri wasn’t sure whether he was pleased with that divergence, or if the entire thing was a sign of something ominous.

The second floor of the harem was pitch dark and unusually listless when he finally brought himself to exit his room. For once, he was dressed like his true self for the occasion, with a dull, unmemorable assembly of a black tunic and tight fitting trousers.

Amidst the natural silence of the night, however, a distinct voice came to his immediate attention.

Yuuri halted his walking, turned toward the source, and stood transfixed for a couple of moments, making sure it wasn’t just an imagination.

Bianca was still fully awake, apparently, and she had the chance to either hear about what had happened in the harem earlier that day, or she was present there herself. Because the weak, helpless, and pained sobs were coming from nowhere else but her room.

In a way, hearing that vile woman cry in such a feeble way was too surreal.

Again, Yuuri wasn’t sure whether he was pleased with that divergence, or if the entire thing was a sign of something ominous.

Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to care, so it didn’t take long for him to continue his path as if nothing happened. Laugh demonically or cry hysterically, either way, Bianca was still Bianca.

He made his way to the first floor and shivered when he walked across the same spot Victor had cornered him in hours ago, but this time not a single person was in sight.

Quietly as he could, Yuuri pushed open one of the the massive double doors of the harem. Just a tiny fraction was large enough for his body to pass through. After the first careful peak at the hallway, Yuuri spotted two figures not too far from the entrance. The couple was arguing hushedly, yet animatedly, between themselves, not noting Yuuri’s appearance.

“-because I’m feeling anxious just by looking at you.” It was Emil who was talking, his hand gently placed on the shorter man’s waist. “You can tell him whatever you want tomorrow.”

“That fool might not be there by tomorrow.” Michele snapped back. The guard had taken off most of his bandages - surely due to his stubborn nature, for his head wasn’t entirely covered with them anymore like it did earlier. His eyes connected with Yuuri’s and he glared intensely at him, slapping Emil’s hand away and charging to his direction, still limping unnaturally and holding on to the injured side of his torso. “There he is.”

Yuuri looked uncomfortably between the two, honestly having not the slightest clue what Michele wanted from him.

Michele’s face up close almost made him grimace, because the swelling had only gone worse around his eyes and cheeks, and the nasty color of the bruises had darkened even more. His violet eyes almost matched the discoloration.

“You are being escorted to his Majesty’s quarters.” Michele said, in a way that made it sound like he was accusing Yuuri of something.

Yuuri blinked, feeling confused, yet defensive. He hadn’t done anything wrong, Michele should’ve known that more than anyone. “I’m aware.”

The man bared his teeth. “Tonight is a Monday.”

“I’m _aware.”_

Michele grabbed Yuuri’s upper arm and pulled him roughly to the side. How the man managed to still exert so much strength in his current condition was a mystery.

“I’m starting to think your promise was utter horse shit.” Michele spit out the moment they were a safe distance away from Emil. “Do you know why?”

There were countless reasons why, really, but Yuuri clenched his jaw, refusing to answer him.

With visible anger, Michele dug into his pocket roughly and held a blade to Yuuri’s face. _“Do_ you?”

 _“M-Michele!”_ Emil whispered, or shouted in horror, Yuuri wasn’t sure which. It sounded like both. “What are you-”

“It’s not what it looks like!” Michele shouted back with the same hushed tone.

Yuuri didn’t need that explanation, because he wasn’t scared for his life, rather, he was ashamed of himself.

Michele wasn’t, by any means, going to stab him to death like he appeared to be, no, that wasn’t what the man meant.

Because that shiny, sharp, and slender blade in his hand belonged to Yuuri. It was the knife that he had lost, the one he spent the night prior desperately searching for.

“I found this when I inspected your room, weeks ago.” Michele pocketed the knife, his eyes narrowing in distaste. “And it wasn’t for safety as I first assumed, was it?”

Yuuri, once again, was being berated by the same man, but instead of feeling humiliated, he couldn’t stop himself from longingly staring at the place where the knife disappeared.

“A whole day imprisoned in bed gave me time to think.” Michele told him, “I wrecked my mind trying to figure out why you did what you did. And surely, it wasn’t a coincidence that your attempt coincided with the night of the Taking.” He waited for a response, but he did not receive any. He took the silence as an affirmative. “You goddamn _fool.”_ He groaned out. "I will turn twenty years soon, just like you now, and I can't write my own name. But you, you read and write like it's as easy as breathing. You speak a dozen of languages without difficulty. You know mathematics. You understand poetry and religion and philosophy... yet, you are so utterly idiotic and blind that it baffles me.” He spat in anger, “You're on everyone's tongue, do you know that?”

“I do.” Yuuri answered bitterly, glaring back at Michele. He hated it. He hated it so much when that man tried to lecture him about his own life, no matter his intentions. As if he _knew_ anything. “It would’ve been easier if I didn’t.”

“I’m not talking about those vile concubines! The castle sees them as nothing but snakes!” Michele retaliated. “Maidens dress like you. Knights turn red at the mention of you. Some men write poetry about your beauty. And even hidden as a servant, people still talk about your hard work and kindness. But you do not bother to see any of it, do you?”

Yuuri snorted in amusement. _Lies,_ he thought. _Ridiculous, laughable lies._

Even the voices were giggling at the absurd words.

“As you will. Don’t believe me.” Michele looked like he was about to hit him, but he refrained himself. “I've been living in this castle since before his Majesty was crowned. And this-” he gestured around them, pointing out how Yuuri was on his way to the Tsar’s quarters despite it not being the long-established night of the Taking. “-had never happened before. Tsar Victor never did this to anyone, only you. You can even _make history_ if you go on like this.

“You have power over that man. You probably have more influence than some of his own councillors. Take advantage of that! Ask him for jewellery, for expensive clothing, for horses, bloody hell, you can even ask him for your own quarters and he might grant it because it's _you_ who asked!”

“I don't _want_ it.” Yuuri said desperately, “I don’t want quarters. I don't want expensive clothing, influence, power, nor jewellery. I want _none_ of it.”

“Then ask him for something that would drive your suicidal thoughts away!” Michele finally said his piece, “Yuuri,” the man held his shoulders and shook them once, as if to wake him up, “Please. I beg of you, for both our sakes. You are not mentally stable. You’re not.” He told him. “And his Majesty can help you. He might be the _only one_ who can help you!”

 

* * *

 

 

“His Majesty is in the study room.” One of the guards said.

Yuuri was tired, so, _so_ tired that his legs could barely keep him standing, let alone his mind being active enough to try and understand anything anymore.

He hadn’t slept in three days, three days that seemed longer than three years and still ongoing, not wanting to ever stop expanding. He wondered how on earth was it physically possible for so many events to happen in such short intervals.

Yuuri turned to Emil, who was the one assigned to accompany him, but the man didn’t seem to understand the implication either.

“Should I wait for him in the bedroom?” Yuuri asked eventually, wanting nothing more than to fall somewhere soft and get rid of all the overwhelming physical exhaustion. Victor’s bed seemed like eden as far as his brain could process.

The guards shared a look, and knowing them, Yuuri could tell that they had received some specific orders that couldn’t apply at the current time, leaving them uncertain on what to do next.

“Do whatever you want, sir.” One of them said, which caught Yuuri by surprise.

“You can go see him in the study room, sir.” The other added, then looked at the first guard for a long time before they both decided on something between them. “Please go to the study room, sir.”

“Go, Yuuri.” Emil encouraged, seeing him so confused by the behavior of the guards. “The Tsar wouldn’t be happy if you were there and he kept you waiting.”

 _How utterly unbelievable._ Yuuri glared at the door before bringing back some remaining strength to make his way to the room.

The study room, if he remembered correctly, was the one opposite to the bedroom, so as Yuuri passed the long, eerie as ever corridor of Victor’s quarters, all he needed was to take a few extra steps to find it.

He realized, wincing as the door creaked painfully loudly, that he had forgotten to knock and take permission to enter before opening it. But considering everything that he had done wrong in the past couple of months - including the fact that he had never, not even once, kneeled or even properly bowed to Victor - this wasn’t that remarkable, and yes, once again, Victor didn’t look bothered by it.

In fact, Victor seemed delighted by the sudden appearance. The gentle smile taking over his face, in the soft lighting of the room, was one of the things that calmed Yuuri the most, that assured him that the Tsar wasn’t about to do something atrocious to him.

The study room was just like everything else that Victor owned; extravagant, priceless, and a piece of art befitting only kings. The floor stretched endlessly, covered with multiple carpets made of the skins of the rarest of beasts. The walls were either decorated with art worth millions or book shelves that were the home of endless amounts of knowledge. There was a massive table at one end of the room, made of the finest of wood, which could’ve seated at least two dozens of men, and at the other end, there was Victor’s desk, the center of attention of the room.

“Yuuri,” Victor greeted softly, too softly, his eyes returning to the paperwork on the desk in front of him before even establishing eye contact. “Take a seat. I’ll be done soon.”

Yuuri stared at the clock, watching, with a new emerging feeling, how the hands started to pass midnight and entering the premise of one o’clock in the morning. He didn’t know what it was, exactly, but something about that particular setting managed to tick him off unexpectedly. And all of a sudden, Yuuri was taken with that same mass of dark emotions that managed to emerge whenever he was alone with that man.

It was obvious, however, why he was starting to get so frustrated. Victor was the one who arranged this meeting, wasn’t he? Victor was the one who ordered him to come at midnight, wasn’t he? He was the one who said that he couldn’t wait, wasn’t he?

But what was Yuuri expecting? For Victor to pounce on him just like the night before? Was he expecting him to pay some attention to him? Was he expecting him to _look_ at him?

He couldn’t see the heavy bags forming under Victor’s eyes, he couldn’t remember that Victor was a Tsar, even, with responsibilities and work and an entire nation under his command. He couldn’t remember that Victor only had two rest days once every two weeks, which was the day of the Taking and the one after it.

He didn’t see. He didn’t remember.

Or rather, he didn’t care.

He only knew that he hated Victor from his very core and the last few days only solidified that.

With heavy steps, Yuuri approached the central desk. His mind was, once again, shut off from the world and unable to comprehend the situation he was finding himself in, thus all what was left of Yuuri was a an uncontrollable frame of rage and frustration that wanted nothing but chaotic release.

 _‘Take a seat.’_ Was Victor's order, and Yuuri was following it. Yet, the half a dozen of chairs in front of the desk were of no interest to him, as he did not care to spare them more than a glance.

Victor had summoned him at a regular night. Victor couldn’t wait until he saw him again. Victor had never done this to anyone else before. Yuuri was Victor’s favorite. He was his darling. And he was probably the first concubined to ever be allowed in this room.

So of course he wasn’t interested in those goddamn chairs.

Victor’s entire frame stilled, but it was too late, because Yuuri had already circled the desk and was standing right beside him. Or above him.

He put a hand casually next to Victor’s, on the letter that the man had stopped writing. Yuuri realized that his understanding of Cyrillic writing had improved, since he was able to read a few words before he looked away.

Victor’s legs were parted, he saw, so he took his seat. Victor’s breath hitched sharply as Yuuri found his balance on the man's lap with ease, keeping his hand on the table, then placing his other elbow on Victor’s shoulder, caging him like he was always caged.

There it was. Victor’s eyes on him once again. Yuuri decided that he hated whenever his eyes weren’t on him like that, so narrowed, yet so wide around the pupils, as if they’d burst with emotion at any second.

_‘You have power over that man.’_

He didn’t know where the bravery was coming from, or whether he could really call it that. If anything, all what he was doing was nothing but absolutely foolish.

“I can come back.” Yuuri said, his voice as low as it gets, but his tone unmistakably demanding. His lips were almost touching Victor’s forehead with how close their heads were, Yuuri’s a little higher. “Next fortnight.”

“No.” Victor declined quickly. “No.” He repeated, this time with a softer, steadier voice. The Tsar wrapped a hand around Yuuri’s back, then slowly reached out to take off his glasses with the other, placing them next to the unfinished letter and pushing them away. His breath fanned on Yuuri’s cheek as he said his next words. “Don’t go. Please.”

Something about Victor's expression, that guise, that rawness, made Yuuri relent and forgo all he had intended to do. He found that, at that moment, he had nothing to say. After everything that had happened since the last time he was in that room, novels long of events, all what Victor had put him through, Yuuri came short to utter anything about it. Not when Victor looked at him like that, not when he begged him like that, urging him to forget, to pretend that nothing happened and to go on with their game unbothered. And something about that, undeniably, was far more appealing than anything he planned to do.

Yuuri had no idea which one of them initiated the desperate kiss that followed, but he knew that it felt uninvitingly good.

Victor was the catalyst to so many horrible things that had happened to him. Victor was a foolish man, an ignorant man, and a demon in Yuuri’s mind. But he kissed like an angel, he kissed in every way that a man should, and Yuuri, blindly, relished every second of it.

A hand tightened around Yuuri’s waist, pushing and pulling until the side of Yuuri’s plastered against Victor’s, leaving not an inch between them. A palm grabbed on Yuuri’s thigh, squeezing then caressing it all the way down to his leg, bringing it closer around the man’s waist. Their position was almost _sinful,_ and Yuuri didn’t mind, because so was their relationship.

The tongue inside his mouth was sinning, and his own was following suit. Victor’s lips were reaching for the forbidden fruit, and Yuuri’s encouraged it further. The moans and groans coming from them, everytime they grinded against each other just right, were songs and prayers dedicated to the devil. The new marks Victor’s mouth was leaving on his chin and neck were satanic symbols.

Yuuri’s hand found its way into Victor’s silver hair, and clasped on, pulling harshly until Victor’s lips were back on his and continuing their joined deed.

Yuuri loathed and cherished it. He despised and loved it. He was disgusted and awed by it.

Desperate hands reached out for the collar of his tunic, tracing the patterns down until they found the buttons that kept it upright. They worked quickly, yet gently, to unknot them and reveal whatever skin Yuuri had underneath.

The man’s cold fingers trailed Yuuri’s collarbones, making him hiss pleasurably at the sensation as Victor cupped his naked shoulder from underneath the fabric. Yuuri’s own hands blindly looked for something in return, but they found nothing around Victor’s top, just the feeling of hard muscle underneath that begged to be touched. Yuuri didn’t know what he was planning to do, but his hand reached for the hem of Victor’s top anyway, pulling randomly, as he was too distracted by Victor’s beautiful lips on his.

Amidst all the laughter, chants, screams and hisses coming from the party of demons inside his head, a distinct voice reached out to him, repeating one phrase over and over and over again until it finally reached his useless ears.

 _What are you doing?!_ His conscience shouted in horror. **_What are you doing?!_ **

Yuuri gasped as if he was being pulled out from under water, his body detaching itself from Victor’s with a harsh movement, jumping away in violent repulsion.

Yuuri was on his feet, unsteady and breathless and flushed from every corner that Victor had touched. His chest was rising and falling painfully, and the world was swaying, or was he?

His vision was disrupted and partly useless, but he was still able to see the state he had left Victor in. Yuuri didn’t know which one of them was more disheveled.

Yuuri swallowed and tried to regain his breath, but it was no use. He bared his teeth, his eyes glaring toward Victor in the nastiest of looks.

“Why did you apologize?!” he finally, _finally_ snapped.

Victor blinked repeatedly, his own breathing unstable. The man put one of his hands on the table to steady himself, then turned toward Yuuri, utterly baffled. “... What?”

“That night.” Yuuri snarled, taking one step toward Victor’s chair, yet not daring to go any closer. “Why did you apologize to me? Why did you give me that gift?!” he inhaled sharply, then let out the next words louder than he intended. “If you want to treat me like a whore, at least be straightforward about it! It’s the least you could do!”

A loud _bang_ came from the table. Victor’s hand, balled into a fist, was shaking from the impact it did on the wooden surface. He was slowly getting up from his chair when he calmly spoke, “You’ve said enough.”

“W-why did you apologize?” Yuuri, consumed with stubborness, repeated a third time. “Answer the question.”

“Why didn’t _you?”_ Victor snapped back, finally looking at him again with an irritated frown.

Yuuri took a few moments to even formulate a coherent response to that ridiculous question. “Exc… Excuse me?”

Victor stood in front of his desk, reaching out for the now scattered papers and arranging them in an organized pile. “To wait for so long. To want it and imagine it in so many ways.” He began, voice laced with contempt. “Then for it to turn into a mindless fuck because of anger and jealousy. Oh, how _magical.”_ The emperor smiled in irony, “This prospering empire is not run by a fool, darling. You looked like you were stuck between stabbing me to death or having sex with me.” The papers that he had just arranged were crumbled by Victor’s hand in frustration. “I was no better. I should have done something other than push you forcibly toward the latter.”

Yuuri stared, transfixed, and feeling completely idiotic for ever thinking that Victor was, in any way, as oblivious as he thought.

“I want nothing more than to erase that night from my memory.” Victor went on, glancing at him, then going back in a useless attempt to fix the mess on the desk. “Perhaps my first time with you wouldn’t have been so unromantic and empty. Perhaps I could have found a way to make you desire me without tricks and games. Perhaps I would have been more gentle.” The man sighed, “But alas, Yuuri. There are things even an Emperor has no control over. I’m no god, after all, I’m just a man.”

“I… I…” Yuuri clenched his teeth, tried to stop himself from saying what he was wanting to say, but he failed. “I took you for someone who wouldn’t have such… such fantasies.”

“You don’t know me.” Victor said firmly, having no idea, _no idea_ how much weight those words carried. “I’m an entirely different person in your eyes, no? And nothing I did - or I’m doing - seems to be able to change that.” Victor hummed, “You might not think so, but there is honor in sex, just like how there is in everything else. What we did was not honorable, so what sort of man would I be if I didn’t apologize for such a distasteful act? In fact, you should’ve apologized as well. It’s common courtesy.”

Vain. He felt so completely and utterly _vain._ Victor’s explanation was laughable, childish even, but Yuuri had to believe it because it fit so bloody well. Out of all the scenarios that he imagined, the reasons he considered, the outcomes he predicted, this was the most ridiculous, yet it _fit._

Did that entail the conclusion that everything that had happened in those two days could have been avoided with one honest conversation?

Or was Yuuri consumed with so many emotions that those two past days would have never been avoided, as he would have never been so opened and acceptable to even have it in the first place without the initial madness? Everything he had done, after all, were only means of releasing and vaporizing those emotions that were ever growing the longer he remained silent and motionless.

He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He didn’t _want_ to know anything.

“Yuuri, no...” Victor said with the most delicate tone, his face crumbling completely as he absorbed Yuuri. He walked closer to the shorter man, placing a delicate hand on his cheek once he was in front of him. “I don’t know what to do when you cry...”

Was there a level more pathetic than not even being aware of the fall of your own tears? And in front of the man that you never wanted to appear vulnerable before? Because Yuuri had reached it, and his patheticness was intensified with the fact that he wasn’t even ashamed upon finding out.

What did the tears signify, however? Were they falling because of the corruption of his childhood? Because of the loss of two caring parents? The disappearance of a sister? The constant feeling of imprisonment? The loss of youth under the punishing hands of merchants and sex traders? The vile teachings of Madams and handlers? The heartlessness of his owners? The loathe and hate of his peers?

Did they fall because of the mental torture that he had to endure every second of every day? The never ending voices that lived only to make his life a living hell? The lust for death that constantly fought with his stubbornness to live?

Were they falling because of the sad story of a guard, the misfortune of a simpleton, the past of a disfigured woman, or the oppression of a child with so many dreams?

Or were they falling because of more mundane, meaningless things? Like the want for attention from one man, and the constant feeling of never being enough? Of never deserving that attention from the first place?

“Your Majesty…” Yuuri hated everything about himself at that moment, from the twisting of his face, to his watering eyes, and to his little voice. He didn’t want Victor to look at him, to be able to see that state anymore. “Can you… can you…” he gulped, turning the front of his face toward Victor’s palm, trying to hide it, to hide it all. “... embrace me?”

He was once again in Victor’s arms before he even finished his request. And there it was, once again, that feeling of being protected, of being isolated from the non-existent prying eyes, from the world. This time, however, there were no contradictions, there was no attention to be gained from any concubines or ill-seekers. He was being held, simply held to be comforted.

“I would do anything for you, Yuuri.” Victor whispered gently.

And that was it; that was enough for him to bury his face into the man’s shoulder and cry his heart out.

“I’m so tired. I’m so goddamn _tired._ _”_ Yuuri said through his sobs, sounding almost mad. “Everything hurts.” He told Victor, as if the man would understand anything. “Everything hurts _so much._ And I don’t… And I don’t know what to _do."_

He cried and cried until his throat hurt. He cried like he had never done in front of anyone else before. And it was draining. It was painful. It was uncomfortable. Yet, in some paradoxical way, it was the opposite of all three at the same time.

 _Why Victor?_ Something inside Yuuri wondered. _Because it’s Victor._ The answer came from the same place.

“Oh darling, I’m sorry,” Victor whispered helplessly, rubbing a hand against Yuuri’s back and using the other to cup the back of his head. Slender fingers ran through his dark hair, offering comfort and affection mindlessly. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want you to apologize.” Yuuri begged, “I don’t want you to give me gifts.” He paused, clenching his teeth and rubbing his face against Victor’s shoulder to sober himself. “Don’t ever give me gifts for being with you. I’m… I’m not-”

“You’re not.” Victor agreed immediately, “You’re not.”

Yuuri bit his lip. “I’m not?”

“I can shout it to the skies, to the entire world, and you’ll still be the only one deaf to my words.” Victor explained tiredly, “Belittling you was never my intention, I just wanted to please you. And I mean it… I’ll do everything I can to please you. I’d buy you anything, I’d offer you anything, and I’d grant you anything. Everything within my power, my darling, I’d do it.”

“Victor…” Yuuri wrapped his arms around Victor's back, finally returning the embrace and clutching on the man for dear life. “Victor, I just wanted to be a dancer.”

“You’re already a dancer.” Victor said gently, “The most beautiful and talented dancer in the world.”

Yuuri shook his head, not having the strength to argue that ridiculous claim. “I just want to dance. That’s all I want.”

“I won't stop you.” If possible, Victor’s touches became even softer on his back and hair. “I never intended to stop you.”

Yuuri’s entire frame shook as it allowed these words to sink. Slowly, so slowly.

“Darling,” Victor pulled away just slightly to look at his face. “Shall we go to the bedroom?”

“I- I can’t.” Yuuri looked away, ashamed and reluctant. “I’m tired… I can’t. Please-”

“I am as well.” Victor smiled reassuringly, caressing his cheeks and wiping the remainder of the tears with his thumbs. “Shall we go read about Pedro, my darling?”

Slowly, Yuuri reached out and grabbed Victor’s wrists, offering some sort of reincorporation, as if he was confessing something.

“Pierre.” He said simply, “The falling prince is called Pierre.”

The Tsar chuckled, grabbing Yuuri’s bandaged hands and bringing them to his lips, kissing every knuckle with affection. “He might as well be called Victor.”

All Yuuri did was stare, but not in the same way he had been staring for the past seven months he had been in Russia. For the first time, Yuuri actually allowed himself to _see._

And suddenly, Victor didn’t look so tall; he was only a few inches taller than him. His eyes didn’t look so unnaturally foreign, but only of a pretty shade and with a shape suited for his face. The man’s dark circles came to light, showing that he was tired like everyone else was. His hair had a couple of split ends, begging for a trimming. His skin didn’t appear so clear and pristine, but only soft and dotted with the tiniest of imperfect freckles.

And for the first time, at that late hour, in that dark room, and in that intimate and calm setting, Victor didn’t look like a monster in Yuuri’s eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Warnings:** Panic attack, dismissal of mental illness, suicide attempt, graphic depictions of violence._
> 
> * * *
> 
> **\+ Meinichi:** Death Anniversary (exactly a year after Yuuri's parents passed away from the plague)
> 
>  **\+ Oka-sama, Otou-sama, Ane-sama:** Mother, Father, Big Sister ( _-sama_ is a very respectful honorific)
> 
>  **\+ Emperor-heika:** His Majesty the Emperor 
> 
> **\+ Yuuri's Entari:**[image](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/41/97/67/4197674c5a5d21ebbf209f17d35e441c.jpg)
> 
> **\+ Naples:** A city in southern Italy
> 
> **\+ Chapter Cover:** [image](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171076355820/chapter-7-of-his-was-gold-is-out-and-of-course)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:**[Banquet Scene](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/163867039580/shitsumon-abound-al-killer-a-lovely-his-was) (comic)
> 
>  **\+ Fanart:**[Bianca and Yuuri](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/164144495360/he-saw-a-glint-at-the-corner-of-his-eyes-and%22) (comic)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/163871491570/shitsumon-abound-continues-to-amaze-me-with-her)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri's Mental Voices](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/163513045400/sometimes-while-reading-a-thought-came-to-me)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:**[Victor Carrying Yuuri](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/166112952285/another-beautiful-piece-from-chapter-6-credits)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [The Painting](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/163469129730/another-tear-jerking-fanart-for-his-was-gold-by)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:**[Victor and Yuuri](http://shitsumon-abound.tumblr.com/post/165920591057/so-uh-i-reread-the-last-chapter-of-hwg-today-and)
> 
> (Believe it or not, all those breathtaking drawings were made by [Kou](http://shitsumon-abound.tumblr.com), who never fails to amaze me!)
> 
>  **\+ Fanart:**[Yuuri](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/164686626650/for-al-killer-i-hope-you-like-it-this) by the wonderful [Sereliahs](https://sereliahs.tumblr.com/)
> 
> **\+ If you want to connect:** You can now join His Was Gold's discord [server](https://discord.gg/aEYmHaM) to discuss this fic with me and other readers! (Big thanks to the lovely [suzurei](http://suzurei.tumblr.com) for setting it) 
> 
> **\+ Alternative song for this chapter:** Halsey - [Control](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNRHD5LkpCw)
> 
> Huge thanks to CherryPieLovesYou for filling my playlist with amazing songs and suggesting this one, because it manages to capture Yuuri's ever-growing dark side in an absolutely BRILLIANT WAY:
> 
>   
>  _I sat alone, in bed till the morning_   
>  _I'm crying, 'They're coming for me'_   
>  _And I tried to hold these secrets inside me_   
>  _My mind's like a deadly disease_   
>  _-_   
>  _I paced around for hours on empty_   
>  _I jumped at the slightest of sounds_   
>  _And I couldn't stand the person inside me_   
>  _I turned all the mirrors around_   
>  _-_   
>  _And all the kids cried out, 'Please stop, you're scaring me!'_   
>  _I can't help this awful energy_   
>  _God damn right, you should be scared of me_   
>  _Who is in control?_   
> 


	8. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _| The Imperial Palace Living Areas |_  
>  **North wing:** The Tsar and Tsarina’s residence  
>  **West wing:** The Tsesarevich’s residence  
>  **East wing:** The guest wing reserved for Russia’s royal family  
>  **South wing:** The guest wing reserved for guest royal families and nobles  
>  **Central Residence:** The commoner’s living area  
>  **Harem:** The concubine’s living area  
>  **Nobles’ Ward**  
>  **Handmaidens’ Ward**  
>  **Servants’ Ward**  
>  **Slaves’ Ward**
> 
>  **\+ Disclaimer:** Though there might be religious tones in this chapter, please bear in mind that the ‘the Faith of Russia’, as an entity, is completely fictional 
> 
> **\+ Another Disclaimer:** I don't even know why I call these chapters anymore, this is basically a novel long (41K words), so make sure to take breaks, stay dehydrated, eat your meals, and leave comments ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> **\+ (The chapter starts off kind of slow but I promise it picks up with vengeance)**

_Underneath the echoes, buried in the shadows_

_There you were_

_Drawn into your mystery_

_I was just beginning to see your ghost_

_-_

_Now the door is open_

_The world I knew is broken_

_There's no return_

_Now my heart is not scared_

_Just knowing you’re out there_

_Watching me_   
  


 

 **_Colbie Caillat -_ ** [ **_When The Darkness Comes_ ** ](https://youtu.be/sjhvSRe-pZE)

 

 

* * *

 

  

There was a time in his life when Yuuri found that, if he stared at the ocean long and hard enough, he would be able to hear the crashing waves against the rocky shores of Hasetsu right in his ears.

The palace - _his_ palace, Yuuri reminded himself, since he was its only remaining lord - was too high up in the mountains for the human ear to detect any sound that far away. The sounds he heard weren’t real, he knew, they were only a product of haunting loneliness and an overly empty heart.

Nonetheless, he enjoyed hearing them, he enjoyed letting his eyes glaze over the horizon for hours and hours until he would hear those imaginary sounds, the faint phantom of freedom. They somehow made him feel like he wasn’t completely alone.

Not that he was, technically. A samurai was stationed at the far end of the yard as always, watching Yuuri like a hawk. _Takeshi_ , the man was called, the one Yuuri assigned to accompany him, ignoring the warnings of the clergy that he was too young and inexperienced to serve a lord of his status. Yet, it didn’t make any difference for Yuuri. Takeshi was following the same oath all the other samurais in the palace had taken; to dedicate his life for his young lord, to protect Yuuri’s being at all times.

What a worthless being it was, he thought even then.

The footsteps nearing him were faint, but Yuuri heard them clearly, since the yard was one of the quietest places in the otherwise noisy palace. That was one of the firm orders he had given the palace staff, to keep the yard untouched, to never tamper or displace anything in it, especially Mari’s arrows that were pinned on the bull’s eye and were never removed since her abrupt departure seven years ago.

_“Your Grace,”_

Yuuri winced at the honorific, turning around but only seeing a bun of soft, chestnut hair, tied beautifully with flowers and jewellery that only the highborn ladies in Hasetsu wore.

The woman behind him was from a family whose wealth only came second to Yuuri’s; he was acquainted with her well enough to know since, after all, he had spent his childhood with that very lady.

Yet, those days were long over, and Yuuri now far outranked her, denying him a friendship he so desperately needed. A friendship between a soft, gleeful boy, and a firm, but a kind little girl.

 _‘Baby love.’_ Mari used to tease them whenever they played together in this same yard many years ago, Minako’s person still present in the background of his life.

He wanted to laugh at that memory, but alas, by then, he had already forgotten how.

How could love be born when the lady behind him couldn’t even raise her head and _look_ at him?

It wasn’t only her. When was the last time _anyone_ dared to meet his eyes?

Come to think of it, Takeshi was once his friend too, wasn’t he? He would sneak in into the yard whenever his father brought him to the palace, poking Yuuri for hours to no end until the little lady would interfere for his sake. Sometimes Yuuri thought Takeshi only did it to get her attention, as the three of them had later settled on spending many days in each other’s company, creating lovely memories, perhaps Yuuri’s last.

But then they had taken off together and left Yuuri behind.

At least they were happy, he told himself, and would perhaps make a pleasant couple one day, Takeshi and her. The romance between the two was not exactly a secret. What was between the three of them, however, couldn’t have been any farther than the friendship they once had.

Yuuri was only fifteen, yes, but he was still considered a man grown. The lady behind him was a couple years older and a woman of lower status, whom he shouldn’t be seen with unless Yuuri was intending to court her. And Takeshi was now his servant, who would be abashed to even speak unless spoken to.

That’s what it meant to be in Yuuri’s position. They wouldn't speak to him. They wouldn’t raise their heads. They wouldn’t dare make eye contact. Not them, not the servants, not the guards, nor the other lords.

Even if they did see him, they wouldn’t recognize him; the eyes filled with warmth and innocent joy had been extinguished quicker than they could save their light.

 _“Your Grace,”_ the lady repeated, her tiny hands shaking under the giant sleeves of her kimono. _“You must know of the orders that came from the capital.”_ She bowed down even lower. It was humiliating for both of them. _“Please take care of me...”_

Of course he knew of the orders given to him from thin air, but that didn’t mean he _understood_ them.

 _“Enough of that.”_ Yuuri sounded colder than he intended, much harsher. Those were the first word she had spoken to him in almost six years, and she was treating him like he was some sort of deity _,_ not the helpless friend she once had who always sought her attention. _“Yuuko-chan, exactly why are you here?”_

She finally raised her head, and Yuuri wished she hadn’t. Yuuko had grown to become a woman of exceptional beauty, for sure, but no beauty could mask the tightly pursed lips, the crinkled eyebrows, and the puffy, tearful eyes that stabbed right through his poor soul.

 _“You know, Yuuri.”_ She cried, _“You_ **_know_ ** _why!”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri felt completely disoriented.

Jolted awake by a sudden breeze from the nearby window, he was shocked to see that, once again, the Tsar's face was close to his, illuminated by an unnatural, nebulous glow. However, only one of them had their eyes opened.

 _Yuuko._ Yuuri touched his cheek in a half conscious movement, realizing that he was crying silent tears in the middle of the night, and in Victor’s bed, nonetheless. _Oh, poor, poor Yuuko._

They were in a tangle of limbs, he and Victor, the latter sound asleep, his fringe scattered on the featherly pillow underneath his head, his face expressionless, and his silver lashes so long that their shadow reached his cheeks, a sight that, for some reason, frightened Yuuri into full consciousness.

Yuuri did not recall how he wound up in this unprecedented position.

What he _did_ remember was trying to bring every ounce of power left in his body to finish reading another chapter of _La Chute du Prince Charmant._ That, as proven by the way he was now lying on his side and facing a sleeping Victor, can be deemed a complete failure.

After assembling his thoughts, Yuuri decided to not dwell any further and do the first appropriate thing that came to mind.

He slipped out from underneath the warm and silky covers, grabbed his slippers, and sidled out of the room without making a single sound.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 A bird, once fully grown, would be forcibly pushed out of its nest, usually from a place very high above the ground, and by none other than its own mother.

That’s how most birds learned how to fly, and this fact had always fascinated Yuuri, who, in spite of knowing how harsh wildlife could be, had thought that the action went against primary maternal instincts.

What if the little bird couldn’t yet fend for itself? What if the wind thrashed at that very moment and the bird failed and died before it could spread its wings?

How can a mother give birth to a healthy child, spend days constructing a safe nest, provide them warmth with her own body, hunt for their food and give it to them by the mouth, then push them mercilessly to their doom, defenceless, just overnight?

Yuuri wouldn’t know; the two mother figures in his life had disappeared long before he reached that phase of his life. And Mari… well, Mari all but sacrificed herself before she could fill that role.

With a barely patient sigh, Yuuri waved a hand. _“Again.”_

Yurio paused midway through a rather sloppy pirouette, raising a blond eyebrow his way. Thankfully, he took a couple steps backwards and started from the beginning without much protest.

While Yurio resumed the steps he had perfected days ago, Yuuri was taking a moment to stare outside the window next to him, recognising a group of commoners at the other side of the castle’s main gates.

It was too far away for Yuuri to see anything but a tiny colourful dot for each person, but it still meant that the public touring hours must’ve begun before they realized.

Yuuri set his eyes back on his student and watched the Prince’s ankle when he started spinning again. He grimaced.

With a sharp clap, Yuuri cut that same sequence for the fourth time in a row. “Again.”

Yurio’s foot settled down on the wooden floor and his hands went up in the air. _“What_ is it?!”

In truth, Yuuri’s nerves were completely frayed. He was trying his hardest not to point out the Prince’s missteps vocally, as he had done so enough that day and was well aware that the boy had a tendency to snap one final time and leave, rendering the future session tense from the start. Knowing Yurio, he was one critique away from boiling over.

So Yuuri didn’t want to retort, he really didn’t, but they were surpassing their third hour of training that day and it was starting to get very frustrating.

But no, he was the teacher. His patience was his weapon. And besides, Yuuri did not want to lose his composure ever again in front of Yurio. The hurt he had caused his student the last time was something he’d forever avoid.

Yuuri cast aside his annoyance, forced a smile, and tried to summon a soft voice but _alas,_ it was fruitless, because the moment he opened his mouth someone else spoke for him.

“I have seen _crabs_ far more graceful than you.” The insult cut through the air like a sharp blade, its tone indifferent, yet the words so harsh that even Yuuri felt hurt by them. “What is this abomination you call a free leg?”

Otabek, the first of the three to spot the newcomer at the far corner of the room, immediately straightened himself and bowed as low as he could. “Your Grace,”

Yuuri only managed to make out the striking, but familiar bright green eyes of the stranger before he collected himself and followed suit.

His heart beat frantically upon identifying her, fear edging its way into his soul at the presence of another member of the royal family.

The Grand Duchess Lilia Feltsman, former heir of the Russian empire, aunt to the Tsar, and mother to the Tsesarevich.

And what a presence it was. He did not need to lift his head or even see anything in order to know, because he could _feel_ the air around them changing to accommodate her.

“Lord Altin,” the Grand Duchess returned the greeting, her temper less harsh but still far from pleasant. Yuuri felt her catlike eyes linger in his direction for a few uncomfortable seconds, but she said nothing to acknowledge his existence.

“What do you want?” Yurio’s entire demeanour changed. “You’re interrupting my session.”

“That was no session.” His mother retorted, and for a moment the two sounded like the same exact person. “A feeble display of incompetence is what it was. I would’ve changed this lesson to fundamentals of dance etiquette before introducing anything else to you this early on.”

Yurio’s lips made a thin line. “I shall thank god that you’re no longer the one teaching me, then.”

“A blessing for both of us, for sure.” She replied dryly. “If you cannot take such standard criticism, then let go of this farce before wasting any more valuable time.”

Yuuri glared at the floor, startled at the merciless way she delivered her advice. How was she speaking so lowly of dance when she herself was once a talented ballerina?

“Yes, yes, _yes,”_ Yurio groaned, his anger coming back. “You’ve said this a thousand times before and you’re welcome to say it a thousand more, but you _know_ you’re wasting your breath, mother!”

“I see.” There was a hint of a smile in her voice, so faint it probably did not even show on her face. But it was there before it completely vanished without a trace. “And I hear just fine without you yelling like a barbarian.”

Yurio crossed his hands in defiance, yet he still replied with a much lower tone. “Why are you here?”

“I have some errands in this palace.” She informed, rather than demanded: “But first, you are joining me for breakfast. Be ready in half an hour.”

“Alright.”

“I’m sorry, Yura, there was something in my ears. I’m afraid I did not hear you correctly.”

 _“Yes,_ mother.”

“Very well.” Yuuri heard her turn and walk to the direction of the door. On her way, however, she paused in front of Yuuri and Otabek.

And for a heavy moment, she no doubt was _observing_ him.

Yuuri did not dare to look anywhere above her silky black skirts. He felt himself sweating, his already damp attire turning filthier. Yuuri was in no shape to meet such a person, not at this early hour, not in such a messy place.

However, he doubted her impression would change with a better presentation, nothing could be more unlikely.

Yuuri had always wondered how she would perceive him, what her stance would be regarding the current situation. Not only was he engaging with, no, _encouraging_ her son in activities far below his status, but Yuuri was also involved with her nephew, arguably ruining the Tsar’s otherwise flawless reputation.

Had Victor told her about him? Had Yurio? And if so, what was being said and discussed behind closed doors? How much did she exactly know about Yuuri?

His stomach churned, the onslaught of vomit was just a few breaths away. _No, no, no,_ he told himself. _I’m too insignificant. They’d never talk about me. They’d never discuss me. Why would they?_

“Young man,” she said it so aloofly it sounded like an afterthought. It still almost gave Yuuri a heart attack to be addressed directly by the Grand Duchess. “I will be expecting you as well.”

By the time she had left, Yuuri’s knees almost buckled under him in distress. He sent Otabek a pleading look, receiving a disconcerted shrug in return.

At the other end of the room, Yurio clicked his tongue loudly and glared at the door. “So _this_ is what the wicked hag came for, huh?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri was at a point in his life when he came to expect misfortune at every turn, sparing little time to reflect on the horrendous chain of events that lead him to this moment, the moment where he, a slave and no more, was invited to a breakfast table with two of the most influential people in the empire.

“Your Grace,” Yuuri had said with practised courtesy upon entering Lady Lilia’s dining room, voice smooth as velvet when he bowed in front of the seated duchess, prince, and knight. “Allow me to express how flattered I am by your invitation. I apologize for imposing.”

A long, lingering beat of silence greeted him.

 _What did I say?_ Yuuri had started panicking before even a second had passed, not sure if the water droplet that fell on his cheek was a bead of nervous sweat or moisture from his recently washed hair. _What did I do wrong? What did I say?_

“I wonder how you’re surrounded with such well-mannered people yet still act so disgracefully, Yura.” Grand Duchess Lilia had hummed, Yurio already seated by her side. “Go on. Make yourselves comfortable.”

To her left, Yurio scowled but didn’t say anything. Otabek had occupied the seat next to the Duchess, so Yuuri was quick to sit beside him, the furthest away from his host as possible.

Up close, he finally realized what was so startling about the Grand Duchess, save the fact that she was worlds away when it comes to their position and power. Lady Lilia’s face was strange, as in, her facial muscles remained still no matter what she was saying or doing. When she talked, her mouth only moved to let the words pass, when she looked at something, only her pupils shifted. Everything else remained fixed in place, and that, in contrast to her son’s tendency to showcase various expressions with everything he did, made her seem much more serious, much more menacing. Yuuri didn’t think he’ll ever get used to it; even _looking_ her way required courage.

With a snap of her fingers, the half of dozen servants around the room had begun to move in sync. Placing cultery and plates with elegant speed and efficiency, filling the table in front of them with all sorts of foods, fruit, and refreshments. Yuuri had only begun to eat, grabbing a few portions from the plates closest to him, when he made sure his other three companions did first.

 _‘Be careful and whatever you do, don’t cave in to her words. She makes a habit of testing people.’_ Yurio had sternly advised him earlier, but Yuuri wasn’t sure if it was needed, really, since almost the _entirety_ of the meal passed with nothing but unsettling tranquillity.

Nothing strange was presented to him, though they all were things he hadn’t had the privilege to eat in years. The cream was soft, the thin slices of pork were smooth as butter, and the olives were rich in flavour. It was, however, the first time he tried dates. He would have never thought something could be so overbearing sweet as honey, yet, the sweetness was overshadowed by the unfamiliar greasy texture.

Yuuri did his best to eat a decent amount but knew well to leave some remains on the plate. He didn’t know where he learned that, but he was certain it was an unspoken rule.

“Young man,” Lady Lilia abruptly killed the silence, giving him a start as she spoke perfect French, even better than her nephew’s. The two other boys stiffened, giving each other knowing looks.

“Y-yes, your Grace?” Yuuri raised his head politely.

“It came to my attention that you’re from Japan.” She said, not even sparing him a glance as she spoke.

Yuuri reached for the glass of water next to him shakily, “You’re correct, your Grace.”

“And what do you eat for breakfast in Japan, pray tell?”

“N-nothing too different from what we’re having now.” Yuuri gulped, trying desperately to subdue his stutters. “Light meat, bread, honey, eggs, or rice. Though, there are many fruits and sweets that I have yet to see anywhere but there.”

Lady Lilia took a small bite of pork. “Such as?”

“Uh, mostly unbaked desserts, like _Mochi_ and _Yokan.”_ Yuuri chirped. “They’re made of rice and red beans. Not only do they taste extraordinary, but they also come with the visual beauty. The presentation is never lacking when it comes to Japanese dishes.”

Trying so hard to answer engagingly and keep the lady’s interest - if there was any to begin with, Yuuri did not notice that he was digging himself into a hole.

Her eyes suddenly sharpened. “It sounds like you were raised in a well-off household if that’s the case.”

Yuuri heard his heartbeat against his ear, violent and surging.

 _So that’s what this is._ He thought to himself, fear consuming him yet again as he stared at his plate, appetite completely gone.

She took a quick glance at the utensils in his hands, as if accusing him of something. “Well off, indeed.”

“Where I lived… it- it was a village known for its fields and farms, so food wasn’t scarce.” Yuuri explained, knowing that he was now treading a very thin line. “Otherwise… living itself was far from easy.”

 _I’m not lying._ He told himself. _I’m not._

“Maybe the Forbidden Kingdom did not have food shortages,” Yurio said nonchalantly, yet Yuuri knew too well that he was trying to aid him.

“Indeed,” Otabek spoke for the first time that day, opting for Russian since he did not seem to speak fluent French as the rest did. Yuuri wanted to embrace the man for talking anyway. “Theoretically, being this isolated from the rest of the world could bear astonishing results when it comes to agricultural production. We can estimate surplus, even, depending on the methods they use.”

“Very well observed, Lord Altin.” She looked at Otabek’s direction warmly, pleased by his input. It was clear she held the young knight in high regard. “But you, Yura, are as ignorant as your cousin.” Her voice dropped to its usual chiding tone. “Japan is not a kingdom, child. It’s an _empire,_ the Nihon Empire.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened, Otabek looked slightly taken aback, and Yurio flushed, embarrassed. The boy forgone French, which he was good at, but not excellent, and expressed his irritation in Russian. “Why is it called that then?!”

“It’s a very common misconception, your Highness.” Yuuri smiled, immediately coming to his defence. “Besides, the _‘Forbidden Kingdom’_ sounds much more monumental, don’t you think?”

Moreover, it was a name easier to remember, especially with how her Grace completely butchered the pronunciation of _‘Nihon’,_ erudite as she was.

“I guess so.” Yurio shrugged. “It’s not like there’s much difference between the two.”

Yuuri couldn’t stop himself from wincing. The Prince was neglecting some very important scholarly lessons and he only hoped it wasn’t due to their training.

He did not notice that Lady Lilia caught him doing it, and he surely wasn’t prepared for what she asked next.

“Do you have a surname, young man?”

They were distributing tea around the table but Yuuri noted the glass of white wine being placed in front of Lady Lilia. It was too early in the morning for alcohol, but he had an urge to chug down a few glasses in his growing discomfort.

“No, your Grace.” _Not anymore._

_I used to._

_And I had your very same honorifics._

_Isn’t life strange and humorous?_

“I suppose you wouldn’t.” She curtly said, wrapping long, slender fingers around her wine glass and taking a small sip.

Everyone around her was starting to look uncomfortable, the air suddenly turning thick with hostility. It felt less like a conversation over a meal and more like an aggressive back and forth, its goal very clear.

The methods were entirely different, but Yuuri now knew where the Prince took his confrontational nature from.

“How strange.” Lady Lilia commented when Yuuri’s tea started to turn cold. “I almost did not recognize you this morning, bespectacled and all,” if possible, her already thin eyes narrowed more. “Looking like an entirely different man...”

Yuuri formed three different answers and was trying to decide which one to choose from. _‘I do not like the attention.’_ seemed pretentious. _‘I prefer looking more modest when I’m not dancing.’_ sounded like he was doing something sultry. And even saying _‘I dress differently so I won’t be recognized.’_ was questionable.

A teacup was plonked on the table with a loud _thud,_ some of its contents spilling on the pristine white cloth.

“Thank you for the meal, mother.” Yurio said as he stood, sounding anything but thankful. “I have matters to attend to as well. We’re leaving.”

His mother did not even bat an eye at the announcement, “Very well. You make take your leave.”

Yurio was halfway to the door when Otabek started to stand, muttering his gratitude. Yuuri waited until Otabek placed his chair back and meant to follow.

“Young man,” Lady Lilia sent a sharp look his way, pinning him down and sending shivers through his spine by her authoritative tone. “You stay right here.”

“No, absolutely _not.”_ Yurio halted, making a violent turn. “I have need of him-”

“You have as much need of him as you believe the ‘Forbidden Kingdom’ did not have food shortages.” Lady Lilia waved a dismissive hand, seeing right through each and every one of his antics. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

The Prince snarled. Yuuri expected him to put his foot down and start shouting again, but something about Lady Lilia seemed to scare even the Tsesarevich himself, who glared and glared at her direction, but upon her unacknowledgement, had no other choice but to storm out of the room. Otabek followed after bowing apologetically toward Yuuri, like he was committing an act of betrayal.

“You as well,” Lady Lilia spoke to no one in particular, but all the servants around them turned rigid. “Leave us.”

Yuuri watched them leave with a sense of impending doom. _That’s it._ He thought, panicking. _That’s it. I’ve reached my end. Nothing could save me now._

Taking the wine glass with her, Lady Lilia made her way to the window in front of him and stared outside in silence. At that instant, she resembled Victor so much it was unsettling.

Yuuri stayed silent, afraid of saying anything that could trigger an outburst. He reached for the napkin on his lap and wiped his hands shakily.

Lady Lilia observed the movement and turned around again, Yuuri barely noting the triumph in her expression.

“Four years as a royal slave can only change so much of a person’s character.” Lady Lilia began, sharp, direct, and powerful. “The way you speak, young man. The way you act. The way you carry yourself with an almost engraved sense of superiority.”

 _My lies are bleeding out. She knows. She_ **_knows._ ** _She hates me. She’ll do everything in her power to get rid of me. She’s going to send me away._

Yuuri’s breath hitched at the last thought. _No,_ Yuuri’s lips trembled. _Victor… Victor won’t let that happen, will he?_

“There’s no wonder why people of high status around the castle are so drawn to you.” She continued, “There’s something exotic about you, that’s for certain, but there’s also something equally... familiar.”

_‘Any harm done to my Yuuri, by a concubine, noble, or even a royal, will not be forgiven.’_

_‘You won’t be violated ever again, Yuuri. I promise you this with my honour’_

_‘Everything within my power, my darling, I’d do it.’_

An unfamiliar calm settled through him. _That’s right. Victor won’t let anything bad happen._ Yuuri repeated to himself. _He won’t._

“You’re a noble.” Lady Lilia announced confidently. “A high ranking one, at that.”

Yuuri stood abruptly, trembling. “I- I am sorry if I had in any way offended you, your Grace. It was - it was unconsciously done. I did not intend for my answers to sound like lies-”

“You do not _lie,_ boy.” She hissed, “But you’re concealing important information for reasons I cannot fathom.” The wine glass sat on the base of the window, neglected, “You see, I do not fancy mysteries, especially when they surround a person of such rising influence. And around my own _children,_ nonetheless. Yurio is too clueless still. He won’t see danger even if it was in front of his very own eyes, not when he can benefit from it. His sister is no better; Mila has always been reckless, and she’s very weak to a pretty face.” Lilia paused, closing her eyes and sighing. “And Victor is the worst of them all. He won’t care even if you were a spy sent to bring his demise. Not at this point, at least.”

 _A spy? A_ **_spy?!_ ** “Y-your Grace-!”

“A slave of such high status is unheard of.” Lady Lilia told him. “I do not know of any wars breaking recently in Asia, not ones where sacking and enslavement were involved, so I’m certain you weren’t a victim of that.” She turned, her eyes meeting his for the very first time. The glare she sent his way was threatening in every way Yurio’s wasn’t. “So how in God’s name did you end up in my nephew’s palace, Yuuri of the Nihon Empire?”

 _“Your_ _Grace,”_ Yuuri raised his voice. “With my honour, I tell you, I have no such ill intentions! I _was_ a noble, someone of _former_ high rank!” he told her, honest as he can be, “It means nothing now because all my titles and property were revoked. Someone of your Grace’s knowledge would know the persecutions that come with escaping Japan. I was traded all around the world, there’s no way I would have predicted where I’d be sent next!”

She tilted her head, unconvinced. “Yet, you only stayed in Russia.”

“His Majesty let me.” He said, “I… I didn’t want - I never wanted-” he clenched his teeth, “I resisted it, I truly, _truly_ did!”

“Or so I heard.” She faced the window again. “It was quite the spectacle. Words of Victor’s utterly _bizarre_ persuasion ran on every tongue. How can I know for sure it wasn’t a tactic to lure him in even further? Because, good gracious, it certainly worked.”

 _What?_ Yuuri wanted to let out an ear shattering scream. **_What?!_ **

“I’m… I’m sorry to have put you and your family under such scrutiny,” he pleaded lowly instead. “It was unintentional, believe me. I was only protecting my- my _pride.”_ He shouldn’t have said the next words, everything about it was inappropriate, but he couldn’t help himself. “Someone of your position would surely understand my reasoning behind not wanting to - wanting _to-”_

“As you said, you had titles and property,” she now sounded angry. “You had fortune to spend, food on your table, and people to serve you. You were lucky to be born in such a privileged place in society. _Why_ would you escape?”

“All... All I wanted to do was _dance.”_ Yuuri fell back on the chair with a rustle. “I was a fool for that, your Grace. That’s what I was. A fool with a fool’s dream.”

He buried his face in his hands. How many times should he be confronted by this? How many times should his past be brought up against him? How many times should he keep on repeating that same godforsaken tale before it stopped shaping his life?

Somehow, the silence that fell after had somehow lost its aggressive edge, giving way for something Yuuri could not name. Disappointment, perhaps, pity, bewilderment, or disgust for all he knew. Maybe it was all of them combined.

Yuuri heard a sigh escape her lips, but he did not dare to release his hands and face the Grand Duchess after that outright display of patheticness.

“I suppose I understand.”

Yuuri stopped shaking, the entire room around him turning static. For the life of him, he couldn’t gather how someone like the Grand Duchess of Russia would ever _relate_ to anything that had happened in his wretched life.

“Lord knows how many times I wanted to escape when I was your age.” The irony was clear in Lady Lilia’s voice, but at least it no longer bled hostility. “Though, I guess I wasn’t the ‘fool’ that you are. A fool for not planning your escape more thoroughly, yes, but not a fool for having a dream.”

She was quite right; Yuuri had come to know that well over the years. He had spent every waking moment in Hasetsu planning, planning, and _planning,_ until every step of his escape fell into perfect synchronization, with the best rates of success that he could physically achieve. He had found the perfect people, the perfect tools, perfect timings, perfect routes, perfect _everything._ Everything up to the moment he was out of Japan.

There was nothing more he could do, he had told himself foolishly, and left everything after it to luck, coincidence, and spontaneity.

He should have known not to lurk in the docks by himself.

He should have known of slave merchants and who they’d target.

He should have hidden his features and moved more carefully.

Yuuri had had a plan, but at the same time, he had no plan at all.

“Yuri.” He raised his head at the sound of his name, but by the looks of it, the Duchess was not addressing him. Her eyes were still fixed somewhere outside the window. “It stands for a farmer, or earth worker, if you may.” She explained. “I used to adore that name. I did not have the chance to name my first two children, so I waited for my third to name them Yuri. Yet, even such small pleasures aren’t granted to a princess. I was scoffed and told it was far too feminine, its meaning far too weak for a child of such powerful position. So we opted for Yurio, a celestial, legendary creature with a lion’s head and a dragon’s body. It was Vitya’s suggestion.”

Yuuri only stared, absorbed into every word she uttered, feeling a slight disbelief at how open she was being all of a sudden.

 _Vitya._ He thought of what was presumably Victor’s nickname in his tight-knit family, for it was the first time he heard it. _That sounds nice._

“What does yours mean?” Lady Lilia snapped his attention back to her.

It did not work like that, Yuuri wanted to say. His name was composed of many characters, each with a different meaning that could be deciphered according to the person who read or wrote it. It would take long to explain how, but Lady Lilia certainly wasn’t interested in such trivial details.

So Yuuri told her his version, “Courage, bravery, and heroism, your Grace.”

“A beautiful name, indeed.” Lady Lilia said warmly. “And who knows…” she lifted her gaze to the sky. “Perhaps God had sent me a Yuri to show my son the right path.”

Yuuri’s heart fluttered at those words, which couldn’t be mistaken for anything but acceptance, no mattered what the voices said.

“Be careful, Monsieur Yuuri.” The Grand Duchess, for the first time, addressed him in a way that did not sound like a spit. ”Don't disappoint me. I had hand-selected all of prince Yurio’s carers since he was an infant. You’re the first one he chose himself, in fact, he was very adamant about you. Don’t do anything that would force me to take that away from him, do you understand?”

A bird, once fully grown, would be forcibly pushed out of its nest, usually from a place very high above the ground, by none other than its own mother.

It was only then that Yuuri understood why.

He ducked his head in embarrassment. “Yes, your Grace. Of course.”

“You may take your leave now.”

The chair squeaked as Yuuri pushed it back in place, taking a second to gather himself. He was beginning to cross the room when Duchess Lilia, whose green eyes were following his retreating figure intently, stopped him, this time with a sharp command.

“Wait.” She turned fully. “Take off your eyeglasses and let me look at you.”

Yuuri blinked in confusion but slowly compiled, showing her his bare face and awaiting the verdict.

Lady Lilia took in his face only for a moment. She nodded to herself and went back to her wine glass, smiling the faintest of smiles, just a small, barely visible arc of her lips. “Victor is a capable artist, but he never managed to capture your eyes right.”

Yuuri turned red, immensely thankful that Lady Lilia’s back was to him, as she was unable to see the full extent of his embarrassment.

“I- I- he…” he spluttered, “I’ve seen the painting, and his Majesty did my eyes justice. They don’t look half as beautiful in real life.”

“No, Monsieur Yuuri, he did not.” She dismissed. “It’s as if he never paid attention to them.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It was later that day when, upon his request, he and Emil made their way across the castle toward the handmaidens’ ward. It had been a very long walk, but Yuuri barely noticed the time passing, for his mind was elsewhere.

Furthermore, he found a hard time paying attention to his temporary guard, who had been talking the whole time, more to himself, really, since Yuuri just caught the last bits of the one-sided conversation. “She’ll scream, I tell you!” Emil was saying, “Sara knows more than anyone how merciless the Grand Duchess is.”

The mere mention of Lady Lilia sent Yuuri’s mind on another spiral. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

“Emil.” Yuuri found himself calling as his steps slowed. He flinched when the guard went quiet. “I’m sorry. Please, continue-”

“No, it’s alright. I forgot what I was saying, anyway.” He chuckled, “What is it?”

“Uhm...” Yuuri fiddled with his hands, “I have a somewhat… strange question.” He avoided looking at the guard’s face. “It’s been on my mind but- It’s alright if you choose not to answer. In fact, I don’t think-”

“Go ahead.” Emil said firmly, “Ask.”

Yuuri frowned at the floor. “What… What was the first thing you ever noticed about me? The very first thing?”

If anyone could answer him and provide a conclusion to his obscene thoughts, it was Emil, who had never shown any interest in Yuuri’s looks or even acknowledged what he was because of it. If anyone could answer indifferently and without any bias, it was him.

If Yuuri was ever sure of one thing, it was the fact that everything up to this point had been a chain of different events that all had but one aspect in common. One catalyst.

His eyes. His eyes that captured the merchant's attention, his eyes that the Noble saw, his eyes that the Madams regarded so dearly, that his owners used as a means for trade and political motivation. And Yuuri wasn’t just speculating, as all of them did not fail to mention it over, and over, and over again, as if Yuuri’s entire being was one thing, but his eyes were another.

As if his eyes were the vessel, and the rest of Yuuri was just an additional extension.

Emil turned somewhat serious, rubbing his goatee and giving the question more importance than it deserved. “I wasn’t completely oblivious about you, to be honest. The guards do their fair share of gossiping when they’re off duty.” He confessed, “But then Michele and I finally saw you for the first time, at the night his Majesty broke his four months silence. _‘This is not some wicked seductress,’_ I thought to myself. _‘This is just a timid, scared young man who’d rather be anywhere but here.’_ So, I suppose that’s what I noticed first, how you weren’t bristling with joy like all the other chosen ones.”

This, this wasn’t really what he expected to hear, and not really what he wanted to know. Emil’s answer was so genuine, so pure and well thought, that Yuuri found himself dirty and undeserving of such commiseration.

“Thank you, Emil. But no,” Yuuri looked away. “I mean, _physically._ What did you notice?”

Emil didn’t even need to think about it. He immediately pointed at his face. “Your eyes.”

Yuuri nodded and continued his sulemn walk. “I see.”

“Yuuri,” Emil followed behind him, slightly confused and a tad bit worried. “You must know I do not care for these things at all...”

“Of course I know.” Yuuri chuckled, trying his hardest to conceal the rush of thoughts in his head. “That’s why I enjoy your company.”

“Oh, likewise,” Emil replied good-naturally. “But may I ask why you needed to know?”

“Lady Lilia… she said some very strange things.” Yuuri sighed, then to further the conversation, he smiled mischievously at the much taller man. “What _do_ you care for?”

Emil grinned. “It’s not a secret that I have a special appreciation for beautiful violet eyes.”

“You’re right. Sara’s eyes are _very_ beautiful,” Yuuri dropped his voice to a whisper. “All of her is. I was slightly enamoured myself.”

“Of course she is!” Emil’s grin widened. “She’s Michele’s twin, after all.”

“Do they do that intentionally?” Yuuri wondered, “Only put good looking in service?”

“That, I do not know.” Emil hummed. “Possibly?”

“I noticed a common theme,” Yuuri shrugged, “Especially with the people serving the Royals.”

“I’m not sure about his Majesty or his Highness, but Princess Mila is _definitely_ selective about that. Her handmaidens… her servants, guards, all ethereal, even her _knight_ is quite a sight. He’s Korean, I think.”

“Huh, and ser Otabek is also a handsome Asian man…” Yuuri said, noting a pattern. “What about his Majesty’s knight? I’ve never seen him before.”

“He’s North American. Though, most people have an urge to punch his face rather than admire it.”

Yuuri didn’t notice he was laughing until Emil joined him.

Honestly, Yuuri was quite fascinated by the exchange they were having. Of course, initiating it was reckless of him, _very_ reckless, and if anyone heard them and took his words out of context, Yuuri will find himself being accused of treachery. But here he was, a young man, talking to another young man, about beautiful people.

It was so painfully _normal_ that Yuuri wondered if there’ll ever come a time when such mundane subjects were the only things he cared about.

Alas, it was only a minute of comfortable silence after that when Yuuri’s mind drifted back to Lady Lilia’s words.

_‘It’s as if he never paid attention to them.’_

For perhaps the hundredth time that day, Yuuri wondered what was she trying to _imply_ by that.

If not his wretched eyes, then exactly _what_ did Victor see in him, what possessed him to assign Yuuri in the harem the very first moment he saw him in that hall?

That far away in the gallery, Yuuri didn’t think Victor could have managed to see much anyway, not anything less significant than two large eyes that only Yuuri had outside the Forbidden Kingdom.

He had an athletic body, yes. It was something that he was more or less tortured to maintain and not ruin, but he wasn’t particularly muscular, or tall, or had any curves like his female peers. His skin might’ve been pale, but not as pale as a European beauty, not like Victor’s, at least. His hair was long, but not _very_ long, as it barely reached his chin, its colour black but not radiant, its condition tired and its form straight with nothing to make it stand out. Even its style was as standard as it can be, since Yuuri cut his own hair, always making sure to not attract attention with it.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he touched his own lips as he walked. They weren’t plump, or rosy, or smooth like all the other people with conditional good looks.  

Yuuri thought of his nose but shook his head in irritation, _no one_ cared about his nose. It’s not like Victor the Third of House Nikiforov saw his nose and decided to go against his whole harem just to have him.

Which brings back his chain of thoughts to a full circle. If not for his eyes, then _why_ did Victor notice him in the first place?

Yuuri thought that he had reached a point where he could _see_ Victor. But as proven again, he was only seeing his ghost. The man himself continued to be a mystery. His intentions, his bizarre actions, the meaning behind his words, his stares, his touches… everything about him continued to be a mystery.

All he had to do was ask, he knew, but to do that, Yuuri needed courage he did not have and boldness he couldn’t easily acquire.

“Speaking of beauty,” Emil nodded toward the end of the hallway they were walking through. “We’re almost there.”

“Oh.” Yuuri lifted his head. “Right.”

They were about ten doors away from their destination when a figure emerged from the room, a figure that was surely _not_ Sara Crispino.

Emil’s blue eyes widened as the figure started toward them.

Their eyes connected for a split second before she whirled around and entered the adjacent hallway instead. The bouncing of light against her diadem was the last thing he saw before she completely disappeared.

Yuuri wondered why she, out of all people, was leaving Sara’s room, and why she was at that part of the palace to begin with, and why she was _crying_.

Emil knocked on Sara’s door without any restraint or regard to noise. “Sara! Open up! We’ve come to visit!”

Yuuri was still looking at the hallway where the figure disappeared when Emil pouted, knocked one final time, then opened the door without permission.

Not long after, Sara was throwing a violent tantrum, and loud yelling and very unlady-like curses filled the room and reached far into the hallway.

Yuuri smiled fondly and closed the door after him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 “And not to mention, you’re turning into a bad mannered imbecile, just like Michele!” Sara chastised for what felt like the hundredth time during that visit. “How _dare_ you enter a woman’s room without consent?!”

“I became increasingly worried when you didn’t open the door.” Emil rubbed his cheek - where Sara had slapped him upon his entrance. He smiled charmingly, nonetheless. “Please forgive me?”

“Absolutely _not!”_ she yelled back, true to her Crispino blood. She grabbed the handkerchief on her lap and dabbed it on her eyes, then turned toward Yuuri, her demeanor completely shifting. “Yuuri, dear, is the tea to your liking?”

 _You just gave me a cup of boiling water._ He wanted to confess, but he smiled reassuringly. “Yes, thank you.”

The fact that she had forgotten to put actual tea in the kettle was the least of his concerns, since it had been about twenty minutes and no matter how much Sara dabbed on her eyes, the tears she was shedding did not cease.

“I’m sorry for the state of my room,” she sniffed, “I was not expecting visitors.”

Not expecting visitors, surely, wasn’t the reason why her chairs were knocked over and there was broken glass on the carpet. “Sara.”

“This attire looks so lovely on you,” she said, indicating the random attire he had plucked from the countless bundles that kept accumulating in his room. “I had hand selected it myself, you see-”

Yuuri sighed. _“Sara.”_

She covered her eyes with a hand and tried to smile, which resulted in her just showing her gritted teeth. “Yes?”

 _That was Princess Mila who left your room, wasn’t it?_ He wanted to ask, desperate to know the cause of her sadness, but one look from Emil and a shake of his head convinced Yuuri otherwise. He might’ve wanted to help, but Yuuri didn’t think he would be able to. “If it’s a bad time, we’ll visit you later.”

“No, no, no,” she shook her head weakly, flattening her skirt. “Get on with it. I’m perfectly fine.”

Yuuri was becoming apprehensive, and he made it clear by sharply looking at his guard, who kept shaking his head ‘no’.

He spoke as gently as he could, “Sara-”

 _“Yuuri,”_ Sara answered firmly, in a tone that begged him to not say whatever he was going to say.

 _Not every crying woman awaits your comfort,_ a voice in his head scolded him. _Not everyone wants to be treated like a fragile child whenever they face a problem. You should know that more than anyone else._

Yuuri looked down in shame. That was true. Sara was like Mari, in a way, who had once told him, _‘Ane-sama does not like it when people see her cry, Yuuri. It’s a sign of weakness.’_

“Right. His Majesty gave me permission to dance whenever I wish,” Yuuri began, sipping his hot water. “But I’m not sure where to proceed from there. I need to begin organizing with the other performers and scheduale my performances according to future events.”

Victor had allowed him to dance, but that didn’t mean that the man would arrange everything for him. Yuuri, after all, couldn’t keep relying on him and stand idly by, letting others guide him through every little thing he did. It was time to take the reins and start putting back some purpose and meaning to his life, especially now that his place was becoming more secure.

“Oh,” Sara’s voice sounded slightly nazally from all that crying. “I’m sorry, dear, but I’m afraid I cannot help you with that. This doesn’t fall under my duties.”

“Uh… but I thought you always had permission,” Emil commented from where he sat next to Yuuri. “And that you just didn’t want to dance whenever.”

“I-I thought so as well.” Sara hiccuped. “His Majesty loves your dancing. Why would he not allow it?”

Once again, Yuuri was reminded of the image of an oppressive Victor that only existed in his head. The man who controlled him, the man who only wanted him for his sick pleasures, the man who did not care about him the slightest, who would dispose of him and punish him if Yuuri refused anything he asked.

That man didn’t exist, he now knew, not fully, at least.

 _‘You don’t know me.’_ Victor had said, shattering that image in just one instant, leaving Yuuri to try his hardest to reassemble a more accurate portrait of the man, one that was closer to reality.

The biggest chunks of his doubts still remained, but Yuuri was trying his best, because, now that he can fully admit it, this poisonous mindset hurt no one but himself.

“Yes, his Majesty never minded. I just wasn’t aware.” Yuuri shrugged, “If not you, who should I ask, then?”

“Why, you know who.” Sara wiped her nose, “It’s Miss Minako who arranges these matters.”

His blood ran cold.

How humorous it was, that when Yuuri finally found the door in which he could use to put his life back together, _Minako_ was the one who had the keys.

He needed to bring himself to look at her in the face, Yuuri thought in shame, before he could dare ask anything from her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 He only needed to visit Prince Georgi’s quarters and he’d be completing his rounds, Yuuri mused to himself, yet it didn’t make him any less miserable.

He had barely exited the handmaiden’s ward before he was surrounded by a flock of handmaidens, and much to his dismay, they weren’t residents going back to their rooms, they were a party sent by the Princess to escort Yuuri back to the east wing.

“I’ll be at the wing entrance the entire time,” Emil assured him. “Don’t worry. Her Highness is very kind.”

 _She is,_ Yuuri wanted to say, but he followed the handmaidens silently. _The last time we met, she was kind enough to ignore my request and report on a sixteen year old concubine, knowing fully that she will be hanged._

Very kind, indeed.

He did have an idea or two on why Tsarevna Mila had summoned him, but that didn’t stop his anxiety from festering. It came from the fact that Yuuri knew too much. He knew things that he shouldn’t have, and it was now catching up to him.

It’s not like he was even _trying_ to figure things out, it was just his damned luck that he found himself in this sort of situation once again.

Princess Mila was sitting in front of her dresser combing her endlessly long hair when Yuuri went inside her quarters.

“Your Highness,” he bowed his head, “You... _Ahh!”_

Yuuri fell down on the floor with a yelp _,_ Mila chuckled mischievously, and he once again felt a familiar weight pressing on his body.

 _“Makkachin.”_ He cried, amused when he shouldn’t be. “Why do you always do that?”

Panting hastily with her tail wagging too fast for his eyes to keep up with it, Makkachin clawed at Yuuri’s chest, his shoulders, his neck, trying her hardest to reach and lick his face in appreciation. And Yuuri let her, feeling honoured to be the receiving end of such pure affections.

Once his eyeglasses were fully soaked, Yuuri took them off to avoid further damage and patted her head, allowing himself a few moments of indulgence before he commanded her to stop, and she, being the good girl she was, finally calmed down and sat between his legs.

 _“Yuuri!”_ Mila exclaimed, clapping cheerfully. “What an extravagant entrance!”

Yuuri looked up, paused the way he was caressing Makkachin, and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, your Highness.”

“Nonsense.” She turned back to her mirror, “She gets quite restless when she doesn’t see Victor for too long. I’m glad you brought her spirits back.”

Yuuri looked at the beautiful dog sitting between his legs, eyeing him like Yuuri meant the entire world to her. It made his heart lurch in his chest.

Compared to the state he found Sara in, Mila seemed completely nonchalant. Her eyes weren’t filled with tears, or even puffy, the hair she was combing did not look dishevelled, and the clipped smile on her face did not give any hint of dejection.

Yet, Yuuri was too familiar with such a scene to disregard the aura surrounding the Princess. If anything, what he was seeing was the calm before the storm.

Yuuri pocketed his eyeglasses and reluctantly let Makkachin go. He dusted off his trousers and made his way across the room.

Once he was only a few feet away from her, Yuuri stopped. “Uh, your Highness,” he said out of politeness, not knowing what else to do. “Please let me...”

Mila paused, staring at the comb in her hand, handing it to him a second later with a grateful smile.

“If you be so kind...”

Needless to say, Princess Mila’s hair did not need any combing at all. There were no lumps, not even strands out of place or electrified hair that stood up. It was, quite frankly, stunning.

“I heard that my mother had you for breakfast,” Mila said through the comfortable silence, smirking. “So I felt jealous and decided to have you for lunch.”   

“I won’t tell anyone, your Highness,” Yuuri said, not wanting to stretch this out any longer. “That I saw you today in the handmaidens’ ward. You can trust me.”

“I don’t have a reason not to, Yuuri,” she looked down at her hands, “But I just wanted to make sure. You must know how intimidating my mother is by now. I don’t want _her_ to get hurt again because of me.”

“I wouldn’t want that either,” Yuuri said, bending down to give Makkachin - who was now sitting obediently next to his feet - a few appreciative pats before he went back to Mila’s hair.

He continued working silently and found himself actually enjoying the activity, for it was very calming. The texture felt exactly like Victor’s hair in his hand the last time he had the chance to touch it, and it’s how he imagined it would look if Victor ever had long hair.

 _It’ll suit him._ Yuuri thought, completely distracted. _It’ll suit him very much._

“And I was meaning to ask...” Mila’s voice turned solemn. “You went to see her, didn’t you? How... was she?”

“Your Highness must know how she was without me saying it.”

“I... I guess so.” She whispered. Her shoulders slumped, then rode up again. “Well!” she clapped her hands, “I guess that’s about all the reasons I summoned you here. Do you want to play chess after?”

People like her and Otabek, who refused to act as their own age, fascinated Yuuri to no end. How mature and composed they looked, while still being mere sixteen year olds, was a mystery. Mila looked like she was in her mid-twenties, she even acted the part, but that didn’t omit the fact that she was still a _child_ learning to deal with the world, with feelings and situations that no one had prepared her for.

However, now that Yuuri thinks about it, maybe the reason he felt so comfortable around these two, was because he wasn’t any different when he himself was sixteen. If he had stopped for a second back then and realized he was still a clueless child, he might’ve not gone ahead and done the biggest mistake of his life.

“Mhm.” Yuuri was merely waiting. “But I must warn you, it’s been years since I was bested.”

“We shall see, then.” She winked, “I have been trained by the very best.”

Yuuri nodded. “Alright.”

“But to think you saw me cry in the hallway...” the Princess pouted. “How _embarrassing.”_

“Your Highness,” Yuuri stopped what he was doing and put his hands on her petite shoulders. “You’re crying right now.”

“I am, aren’t I?” she chuckled, trying to wipe the tears that have been falling down the moment Yuuri took the comb from her hand. “Come here then, you handsome gentleman, and comfort me.”

Yuuri wrapped one arm around her neck and used his free hand to pat her head gently. Mila tightened her hands into fists and pushed them against her face, her silent tears turning into sobs.

 _Not every crying woman awaits your comfort,_ the voice had said.

But this one does.

“I-Is this a beginning of a love affair? W-we should keep it a secret from Victor,” she cried through the jests she was making. It wasn’t funny, but Yuuri didn’t stop her. “I wish not to be hanged. He tends to be very possessive when it comes to you.”

“I shall take this secret with me to the grave.” Yuuri wrapped his arm around her more tightly.

“And as my new lover, you shouldn’t take _her_ side, understand?” Mila joked. “She-” her voice cracked, _“She’s_ the one who left me.”

Of course she did, Yuuri thought, Sara was four years her senior, and the adult in the situation. He had gathered that much from the moment he saw the state of Sara’s room.

“How cruel of her.” He caressed her head one final time, grabbed the comb again, and started working on an actual mess that formed.

“Oh, Yuuri, my love,” Princess Mila drawled, “You like my hair, don’t you?”

“I do.” He told her. “It reminds me of someone’s.”

“I hate it with passion.” Mila confessed. Yuuri was fascinated by how she kept a conversation going even with how hard she was crying. “It drives me crazy. I wish my hair was short like yours. It looks so pretty and comfortable.”

“But yours is much thicker than mine,” Yuuri argued, not liking the idea of cutting something so beautiful. “It won’t look the same if you cut it.”

Mila shrugged. “The handmaidens would never do it for me, anyway. They won’t have anything to do. It’s as if they serve my hair and not me.”

Yuuri let go of Princess Mila and walked to the table nearest to them, pouring her a much needed glass of water and going back to her with a handkerchief in hand.

Mila thanked him immensely, cleaning her nose and shrinking herself into a cocoon, her tears just barely stopping.

“Your Highness,” Yuuri put a comforting hand on her shoulder and looked at her reflection, suddenly determined to bring back the smile on this little lady’s face. “Do you have scissors?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It was only a few days since Princess Mila came out of her quarters one sunny afternoon with her hair only reaching her chin.

The Princess wore her new haircut with grace and confidence, as if her true self had finally emerged. Her navy blue eyes now shined without being hidden and the shape of her jaw and cheekbones looked more defined than ever. She completely ignored the horror on people’s faces and paid them no mind as they mourned the loss of such beautiful hair that once reached her waist.

It was only a few days since then, indeed, but Yuuri still managed to spot more than a handful of maidens around the palace with similar haircuts, gushing about the new trend that the Princess started.

A lady with lots of influence, was Tsarevna Mila.

He caught sight of her in the hallway once, surrounded by her friends and handmaidens. Their eyes locked, and the Princess sent a mischievous smirk his way, putting an index finger against her lips.

Yuuri smiled and did the same, assuring her that their secret is safe with him, then he continued on his way like nothing happened.

Of course, no one but him knew that that same radiant lady cried herself to sleep every night, but that was also one of their secrets.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 “... I’m not certain. I thought she’d persecute me. At some point, she did suggest that I might be a spy...”

Leo snorted.

“Everything is quite more extreme with the Royals, isn’t it?” Phichit laughed wholeheartedly.

 _“Outlandish,_ you mean,” Michele gestured toward Yuuri. “Look at him, what could possess someone to accuse _this_ man of being a spy? He can’t say one convincing lie to save himself. Trust me, _I’d_ know.”

“The Tsesarevich, Altin, and I waited outside the whole time, mind you,” Emil elaborated, giving his side of the story. “The situation got scarier every time his Highness cursed. Dear God, Yuuri, I thought I’ll never see you emerge out of that room...”

Yuuri had found Michele on his way to visit him in the servants’ ward and, not quite shocked by Sara’s absence, he made sure to be the one to accompany him to his final medical examination. Sara had been cooped up in her room for days, even her brother’s health being of no concern to her now that she was dealing with a broken heart.

It had only been two weeks, but fortunately, the colour on his guard’s face had returned and he could barely see the bruises anymore.

The three of them found Phichit and Leo lounging in the empty infirmary, and upon hearing bits of the latest bizarre news Emil was telling the Italian guard, the Thai Lord demanded to know _all_ the details. Yuuri still wasn’t sure how, exactly, he had succumbed to their urging and began giving an inside account of what had taken place at the breakfast with Lady Lilia four days ago.

Yuuri couldn’t honestly remember the last time he had gossiped with his friends, or the last time he even _had_ friends, for that matter.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have better things to do...” Michele commented, as Phichit was the one checking his injuries, which was a nursemaiden’s job.

“It’s alright,” Phichit assured him. “I’m painfully unoccupied at the moment.”

“Weren’t you heading to the town, Phichit-kun?” Yuuri recalled.

“I was advised against it.” The Lord did not seem too bothered by the fact. “I sent someone in my place for the supplies.”

“I’d not count on that,” Leo was sitting crossed legged on the floor, flipping through Phichit’s sketchbook. “Very limited carriages going in and out today.”

“Speaking of which,” Michele turned to Emil and him, tone more serious. “You two should follow suit. If possible, postpone your in-town activities to a later time.”

“I don’t have any,” Yuuri replied honestly. It’s not that he was forbidden to go outside the castle, but he wasn’t sure he was allowed to, either. The palace was big enough to never make Yuuri yearn for a change of air and ask for it anyway. “But is something the matter?”

“Policy changes,” Phichit replied distractedly. “It happens quite a few times a year.”

“Changes?” Yuuri’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “But nothing major had happened since the mandatory school enrollment. I’ve been checking the archives regularly.”

Even with how sudden that last policy was, and how it demanded to change the lives of countless families throughout the empire to adjust to the changes, there was little to no backlash at the time. The reception, if anything, was ardent.

“Blah,” Michele made a disinterested noise. “You and your reading.”

“Words travel faster than wind, and even the walls have ears.” Phichit said dramatically, “Nothing has been implemented yet. However, good or bad, the news of an upcoming change is making the common folk restless. And the common folk’s restlessness is, in turn, making the upper class anxious.”

“I even heard the head of the chapel fearmongering the other day.” Leo added, “It was quite unsettling.”

“Most of what’s being said are rumours, though,” Emil said. “Besides, it happens every time and nothing ever comes out of it. It’s just a silly safety measure at this point.”

“That I know.” Leo agreed.

“If something is being exaggerated for the sake of safety, I don’t think it’s silly.” Michele chastised. “The outrage is real in a way that the news isn’t. It’s our job to enforce these measures.”

“Not _your_ job, Crispino.” Phichit tightened a hand on Michele's shoulder, the smile he sent his way was unpleasant, to say the least. “I see one more wound on you any time soon and I’ll show you some interesting ways to use a scalp.”

Michele sat up a bit too stiffly at that, making Phichit move away with a devilish chuckle.

“Eh, Yuuri,” Leo dropped the sketchbook and looked up, his eyebrows raising in confusion. “I thought you’d know more than all of us.”

“Why would I?” Yuuri frowned, “It’s not like anyone writes down rumours and words of mouth.”

“Really?” Leo looked slightly surprised. “I thought that maybe his Majesty would mention something to you.”

Yuuri felt cornered when four pairs of curious eyes stared him down.

“Uh, no, not at all.” Yuuri fumbled. “We don’t... talk about these matters.”

 _Or talk at all,_ he wanted to add grimly.  

Phichit looked far too innocent for the comment that came out of his mouth. “Too busy doing other things, I reckon.”

Yuuri loved Phichit, the young lord was one of, if not the, closest people to him in the entire palace, but sometimes, sometimes Yuuri just wanted to strangle him.

“I think we’re the safest we could be, considering everything,” Yuuri said seriously. “Nothing would happen as long as we remain in the palace, correct?”

His companions muttered, hummed, and grunted their agreements, and they all left it at that.

Whatever was happening, Yuuri and the people he knew were worlds away from it. They lived in the _imperial palace,_ after all, the home of the Tsar. Not only did it have the tightest security in the whole empire, but no one had immunity against mass attacks like Victor Nikiforov did. And it wasn’t just because of his position, rather, it was more about the public’s affection toward their Tsar.

Victor was loved by his people, to say the least. It was something that Yuuri never stopped hearing about. Minor cases aside, the majority of the people all but worshipped the ground he walked on and considered the mere fact of being born in his era a privilege.

And it’s not like they didn’t have a solid reason for such views. So far, Victor had accomplished more in his eight years of reign than any Tsar before him had.

So of course they’ll be safe by default, Yuuri thought, and they’ll continue to be as long as they remain living under the same roof as his Majesty.

Yuuri was staring outside the infirmary’s window as he thought all this, a habit he might’ve picked up from the Tsar, or his aunt, he didn’t really know.

He glanced at the clock above Phichit’s head, not paying attention to the new piece of gossip they were now discussing - something about a knight’s engagement to a handmaiden. Yuuri then looked back behind the glass, right at the palace gates.

His eyes narrowed.

The group of commoners he saw every morning had not dispersed yet, Yuuri saw, and their gathering in this torturous cold was starting to make less sense, since the touring hours had ended a long time ago.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri did not know what was happening between him and Victor anymore.

More than a couple nights of the Taking had come and gone, and given what happened the night Yuuri emptied his heart’s contents and cried himself to exhaustion in Victor’s arms, something should have shifted between them. Or rather, some progress should have been made.

Except, that’s far from what was happening.

He read plenty that time around, and Yuuri found himself immersed in every line in a way he forgot to ever since he started reading that book fourth months ago.

The story of _La Chute du Prince Charmant_ was reaching its climax, at last, and Yuuri was beginning to realize how astoundingly different the hero was from where he began his journey.

Pierre’s development was surely something enlightening to witness. He had gone from the overly cocky, pretentious, and womanizing prince who thought the world was at his feet, to a humble, courageous, and considerate gentleman who would do anything just to a put a smile on Cecile’s face. Cecile, a duchess from a foreign nation, was the heroine of the story, who was far from Pierre’s reach, who had rejected each and every one of the prince’s advances with exclamations of her burning hatred toward him. But in fact, as it was revealed a few chapters ago, Cecile had loved the prince for years, most passionately, but she had been guarding her heart the whole time from the hurt that he would surely cause her.

 _“Yuuri,_ ” in his concentration, Yuuri failed to notice how close the Tsar was to him, his hot breath fanning against his cheek. “I’ve come to believe that the longer I look at you, the more beautiful you become.”

Yuuri froze, his reading coming to an abrupt halt, his eyes piercing holes into the page in front of him, all the words written down turning into a disjointed mess.

Yuuri honestly, _truly_ didn’t know what was happening between him and Victor anymore.

They had spent months and months like this, following a routine that scarcely changed. Yuuri wasn’t a stranger to Victor’s exaggerated compliments, each one more dramatic and less believable than the last, as Victor never failed to come up with new ones. Yet, lately, Yuuri found it much harder to ignore them, to discard them, to not allow them to make his heart pound in his chest to a point of pain.

And it wasn’t just the compliments, Yuuri had to admit. It was _everything_ about the man.

Victor had always been in the back of his mind, early as the first day he arrived in the palace, but nowadays, thoughts about the Tsar took over the very front of his brain. It was absolutely _obscene._ All of a sudden, every conversation he had somehow lead to Victor, everything he focused on reminded him of Victor, everything he thought of someway or another was related to Victor.

The chants in his head, before he realized it, had turned from his former teacher’s name to _Victor, Victor, Victor, Victor, Victor, Victor._

With a gulp, Yuuri resisted the urge to turn his head and see what sort of expression was taking over the man’s face this time. He was still playing with Yuuri’s hair, never doing anything else, never touching.

The Tsar hadn’t touched him, not even once, since the night Yuuri cried in his arms.

Yet, the single act of playing with his hair was affecting Yuuri more than it should.

There was just something about it that made Yuuri unable to sit still, something in the possibility that, at any moment now, Victor could wrap those strands he was stroking in a fist, tight and rough, and smash his lips against Yuuri’s.

He put the book securely on his lap, dazed.

But _shouldn’t_ Victor be doing that? Yuuri thought, knowing that he won’t stop him if he did. It’s not like he didn’t want him to.

However, the truth of the matter was that Victor _wasn’t._ In fact, he hadn’t even attempted to. Not with a single lingering touch. Not with a single advance. Nothing.

Perhaps, his early doubts made their ugly appearance once again, perhaps the emperor had lost interest when it comes to that aspect. The sex they had at that time must’ve not been that great to prompt him to want more.

 _‘I want nothing more than to erase that night from my memory.’_ Victor had said, after all.

There was no other way of explaining it. Yuuri shouldn’t have minded, considering his early unwillingness, but he found that he _did._

Any sane person in his position would know what that means; less influence, a less secure standing, and a more unstable relationship with the Tsar. But Yuuri, Yuuri never thought of any of that. He only focused on his own desires that weren’t finding any release, the untamable want that consumed his body whenever he looked at Victor, whenever he _thought_ of Victor.

This is what people experienced whenever they met beautiful and attractive people, Yuuri supposed, but his urges were all directed toward Victor, and no one else but Victor.

Furthermore, did his Majesty not feel the same way? Didn’t he have similar desires and needs? Yuuri didn’t know, but maybe he had his harem long enough to satisfy and lessen that ever-growing appetite. Unlike Yuuri, who had but only one taste of it and sometimes thought he was close to _dying_ from sudden lapses of hunger.

 _Or,_ Yuuri’s throat was suddenly dry, his heart sinking to the pit of his stomach. He slowly turned his head toward Victor, his eyes examining the man’s face, his mind going haywire. _Had he found someone else?_

Victor blinked at the attention he was receiving, but he still summoned a gentle smile that took over his entire face. “Something on your mind, sweetheart?

 _Thump, thump, thump,_ **_thump,_ ** his heart begged upon hearing that endearment. His mind was now completely empty of all the previous thoughts he was having, as it made way for the desires that began to flower once again.

“Nothing at all.” Yuuri answered too quickly, trying his hardest to go back to the book, his cheeks aflame.

“What is it, Yuuri?” Victor chuckled. “Do you not like to be called that?”

Yuuri swallowed a bile in his throat, feeling like he had been caught doing something criminal.

“N-No, of course not.” Yuuri said, “You… you can call me whatever you want.”

“And you can, too.” Victor said softly, “My name would be nice.” The Tsar drew closer again, “You say it so prettily. It makes me love the sound of my name.”

 _I’d rather not,_ Yuuri wanted to plead, not because the last two instances he did were when Yuuri was in bed, desperate and needy, and when he was amidst having a mental breakdown, but because saying the Tsar’s name so casually meant crossing a line that Yuuri wasn’t sure he wanted to cross.

Yet, his traitor of a heart was still pounding happily, and his face was still burning red. Yuuri wanted to curse himself aloud.

“Say, darling,” Victor, with his hands flat on the bed behind him, and upper body inching closer and closer until they shared their breathing space, seemed like he had caught a rare fish. “You like it when I compliment you, am I right?”

 _I don’t know,_ he wanted to scream.

“I- I suppose…” Yuuri avoided the Tsar’s stare. “It makes me slightly nervous.”

“Is that so? I’m glad it does.” Something about Victor’s smile then just wasn’t right. “Has anyone ever made you this nervous before, Yuuri?”

_“What?”_

Victor merely stared at him, wanting an answer.

“Uh,” he gulped, taken aback. “No. Not in this way.”

Yuuri was being completely honest, but even if he had, at some point in his life, met someone like that, he was sure he wouldn’t mention it.

“I’m very flattered.” Victor once again reached to play with his hair, now looking at him with a gaze so intent and warm Yuuri did not believe he heard the next words coming out of his mouth.

“Yuuri, who’s Yuuko?”

 _Huh?_ Yuuri’s eyes widened, shocked beyond belief. **_Huh?!_ **

_How did he know?_

_How long had he known?_

_Who told him?_

_Is he angry?_

_Will he punish me?_

“You were saying their name.” Victor clarified, seeing the surprise on Yuuri’s face. “In your sleep. You were crying and saying their name.”

Victor had not been asleep that night, Yuuri realized, horrified that he managed to do what he did and have the Tsar be a witness.

“My sister.” Yuuri said the first lie that came to mind.

 _‘Jealousy drives a man mad.’_ The Madams used to say, encouraging it, even, when it came to his dancing.

But being playful while performing was one thing, and telling his owner about a woman in his past was another.

Yuuko was certainly not a lover to him, but the truth was still something that he couldn’t tell the Tsar about. The Madams had always warned him to never purposefully provoke his masters, to never put their ownership in question. It was considered one of the rules that should never be broken.

And it’s not like they needed to tell him; Yuuri had heard and read countless mortifying stories of what jealous Tsars had done to their concubines in the past, and he did not wish to experience any of those things himself.

Instead of being relieved like Yuuri expected, Victor’s eyes turned half-lidded, sadness clear on his face. “Oh, Yuuri.” He said helplessly, just like the time he stood in front of him as he cried, “I’m so sorry, darling. You must miss her greatly.”

 _You are a liar._ Michele’s voice in his head shamed him, and he deserved it. For what Yuuri saw, Victor didn’t look like he had been jealous, just curious, and Yuuri’s assumptions about him, once again, were groundless.

It’s not like Victor had any reason to be. He had heard of so many people wanting him, had noticed many eyes displaying intentions that were anything but pure, yet not a single person had actually approached Yuuri that way. No one dared to, no one _would_ dare to.

Victor won’t find the need to feel jealous because he wasn’t an insecure man, and furthermore, the castle residents weren’t suicidal.

Yuuri looked down at the book in his lap.

He didn’t know where the sudden courage came from, perhaps it was the desperate need to change the subject, but nonetheless, when he took a careful look at the pages again, he remembered something that had been bothering him since the day Michele had attacked him in that hallway, something that had been on the tip of his tongue every single Taking night since then, and he couldn’t stop himself from finally confronting the Tsar about it.

Yuuri turned to look at Victor in the eye. “What did Pierre tell Cecile before he left for the battle?”

The Tsar blinked a couple times, his hand dropping down and lips widening into an innocent simper. “Who’s Pierre? Who’s Cecile?”

Yuuri was not sure if he meant it as a jape, or his question was completely serious.

He had spent countless hours in that room, for almost _four_ months, doing nothing but read about these two, who were approximately mentioned in every single paragraph.

Instead of being confused, Yuuri felt exasperated, _angry._

His suspicions had been true. All that time and effort he had spent, all the doubts that ran through his mind, all the fears of not reading efficiently were for _nothing_. Because the emperor, apparently, had not been listening to a single word the whole time.

“It doesn’t matter.” Yuuri closed the book with a loud _thud._ “If it bores you that much, you could have said so. I can read something else.”

The Tsar stared at him affectionately. “Oh, darling, it won’t make any difference.”

Yuuri frowned, his irritation growing more as the Tsar pulled the book out of his hand, taking a minute to thoughtfully examine the cover.

“In the end, Pierre and Cecile get married.” He told Yuuri all of a sudden, shocking him silent, “Their wedding takes place in the most beautiful chapel there ever was, the same chapel Cecile saw in her dream at the opening chapter. Pierre cries when she finally accepts his hand.”

Yuuri gaped in disbelief. “He does?”

“A man in love has a heart as fragile as glass, Yuuri.” The Tsar said, “All men are capable of crying, even someone with a seemingly impenetrable exterior as Pierre. That’s why it’s called _‘La Chute’._ Cecile manages to bring him down from his high pedestal, until he has nothing but his heart worn on his sleeve.”

“But Pierre never reacted to anything emotionally; it’s one of his character traits,” Yuuri snatched the book from Victor’s hand, flipping through the pages hurriedly, unaware of what he was doing. “He fought as a gladiator. He participated in a war battle. He protected Cecile from a wild boar. All without even flinching! Upon reading his aunt’s will, he did not even mourn. When his past lovers cried and expressed their hurt, he did not acknowledge them. I refuse to believe that man shed a single tear… And if he did, it would be grossly out of character.” Yuuri continued looking through the pages, oblivious to how Victor’s eyes widened more and more as he listened to him.

“But Yuuri, he was never emotionally invested in any of these things...” the Tsar argued, “He had pursued that woman for six years. You had noticed, didn’t you, how he was slowly morphing into an entirely different man because of it.”

“But Pierre’s intentions had never been that pure or genuine in those six years. He had pursued her not because of love, but because she had posed as a challenge-”

“And that’s where you are wrong.” Victor pointed an accusing finger at him. “Only in Cecile’s head, he did. Perhaps even he himself did not realize how deep his love was until the moment she had relented and it all came pouring down on him, don’t you think?”

“His was not love. It was an obsession.” Yuuri was at the end of the book when he read a part of the last few paragraphs. _‘The pavement grazed his numb knees,’_ it read, _‘Dust gathered around his frame, his hands covered his face, and Pierre felt his whole body shattering as his tears fell-’_ Yuuri then paused, finally snapping himself out of his excited state. “You… You have _read_ this before.”

Victor seemed startled, even slightly hurt, if his drawn eyebrows gave away anything. Was it something Yuuri said?

“I… I have.” Victor recovered, looking at him apologetically, “And every single book in my library. Truth be told, it’s one of my favourite novels.”

Yuuri looked in front of him, thinking of a thousand questions, then looked back and voiced only one. “Then why did you not say so?”

He chose the most loaded one, Yuuri saw, because Victor looked away, his mind working on what to say, the smile that never left his face nowhere to be seen.

“You refused to talk.” Victor finally confessed, not meeting Yuuri’s eyes. “I did not even know what your voice was like. It drove me mad.” He covered the side of his face with a hand, chuckling bitterly to himself. “I’m glad you enjoyed the novel that much, because this is the longest you had ever talked to me.”

Yuuri sat still as a statue, completely speechless.

Some things that he had always dwelled over were finally starting to make sense, especially things that had happened the first night Yuuri entered the Tsar’s quarters, things that then seemed nothing but incomprehensible.

And it was wrecking Yuuri’s mind, to say the least.

It was true that Victor wouldn’t know what Yuuri’s voice was like, because back then, Yuuri did not say a single word during the entire visit.

Yuuri did remember how, when he was lying in Victor’s bed after his attack, Victor seemed startled to hear Yuuri speak.

And Yuuri did, he _did_ remember that Victor stopped interrupting his reading only when the one-sided conversations turned mutual.

Instead of being astonished by the unexpected revelations, or flattered by the way Victor seemed to treasure something as insignificant as his words, Yuuri felt guilty.

Because Victor looked sad, and Yuuri didn’t want him to look sad. _Ever,_ he found himself thinking.

“My handler told me not to speak unless you gave me permission,” Yuuri told him, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” _I didn’t know you held me in such high regard. There was no way I could have._

Victor chuckled heavily at the information, “What a _treacherous_ woman, that handler.”

Yuuri stared at the book resting on his lap, at the carpet where Makkachin usually sat watching them, at the window that opened to the ocean, and then his eyes fixed at the giant clock in the corner of the room like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Yuuri didn’t know what to do in this situation, he honestly didn’t, even though he desperately wanted to.

Victor followed his gaze, and he sighed upon finding the clock. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?”

 _No, it isn’t._ Yuuri wanted to protest, growing tired of this aimless game. _I’m not supposed to leave until the morning. Why do you always want me to leave?_

The unspoken words were still there, however, and no matter how comfortable the Tsar seemed in his presence, Yuuri couldn’t ignore the silent command he was giving him.

Yuuri stood, reluctantly so, moving to place the book on the nightstand, like he always did when he was dismissed.

Victor, however, went to grab it before he did. “It’s time to put this away.” He announced, standing also, the book closing in his hand, perhaps to never be opened again. “I’m sorry for ruining the ending for you, Yuuri. I didn’t know you were enjoying it.”

“It’s alright.” Yuuri said faintly, not minding the fact, because the conversation they had finally resolved one of the many mysteries surrounding the man.

The new portrait of Victor Nikiforov that was assembling in Yuuri’s mind was starting to look even more different, but closer to reality, nonetheless.

“I did say that this novel was one of my favourites,” Victor told him as he walked towards his bookshelves, putting it back in its place. “But now nothing else shall compete.”

 _But why do you still look so sad?_ Yuuri was desperate to inquire.

Victor did not put the rose back between its pages, he noted. In fact, Yuuri hadn’t seen that rose again ever since Victor plucked it out of the book and, for some reason, he felt strangely glad.

They then stared at each other, Victor by the shelves still, and Yuuri at the foot of the bed, and none of them made to move.

Yuuri was wearing his spectacles then because, four weeks ago, Victor all of a sudden announced that he would _not_ have Yuuri squinting for even one more minute and called a handmaiden, only to send that poor woman all the way to Yuuri’s room in the harem to retrieve them. Since then, Yuuri made sure to always have them on his person, just in case of another embarrassing situation like that.

And he was glad he had them on, since Victor’s full profile seemed much more clear, the details of the Tsar’s face no longer vague from afar, his features more defined, his hair looking even softer, his eyes as pretty as ever but not just a stroke of colour from that distance. He would never tire of Victor’s beauty, because what a view it was, Yuuri thought, even after all this time.

Yuuri said nothing, even though he wanted to. Victor’s sadness seemed to dissipate a little when they conversed, but Yuuri just didn’t know what else to say.

“I’ve delayed you enough.” Victor talked for him, stepping closer to where Yuuri was standing. “You may go.”

Now that Victor was so close to him, closer than considered necessary, Yuuri had to bend his head upward to meet his gaze.

Something about it was so intense Yuuri had to look away, lest he’d _burst_ in his spot and do something idiotic.

At the corner of his vision, Yuuri once again spotted the painting, standing in the corner of the room, untouched and neglected as ever, dust beginning to gather on its edges. The eyes of the man in the painting, now that he could see it more clearly, did seem slightly different. They were Japanese eyes, for certain, but not exactly Yuuri’s.

_‘It’s as if he never paid attention to them.’_

“Victor?” Yuuri found himself saying the Tsar’s name before he could stop himself.

“Yes, my Yuuri?”

Victor sounded so loving, so warm, that Yuuri couldn’t resist looking at him again, the words dying in his throat.

Although his voice was like that, the man’s face as he stared Yuuri down held something so _raw_ that made his heart race and his hands sweaty.

Victor’s voice lowered to an intimate whisper. “Do you perhaps want something?”

 _Hold me._ He wanted to order. _Kiss me. Make me yours in the only way I want you to._

But of course, Victor did none of these things, no matter how long Yuuri looked at him, waiting, making sure to mirror Victor’s exact expression.

Yuuri hated it, he _hated_ whatever reason behind the Tsar not doing anything.

He managed a weak smile. “Goodnight.”

Yuuri did not see the slight disappointment on Victor’s face, because he was already walking past him and toward the door, clueless and frustrated.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Victor called after him, sad as ever.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 The Grand Duchess, her husband, and their two children had only been visiting the day Yuuri was invited for breakfast with Lady Lilia, but their stay had stretched longer than he had predicted.

Such a long visit, now surpassing two weeks, should not seem necessary, since their palace was also located in St. Petersburg and was not that far from the Tsar’s. But it could not be helped, for a safety protocol was officially being enforced in light of recent events and they were advised to not leave until further notice.

Yuuri should not have been concerned at all, given that he, like Emil, knew that this was nothing but a silly measure, but he was not blind.

He was not blind to how the castle residents exited the palace less and less frequently, how the guards patrolling the gates grew in numbers, and how the Tsar did not leave for his daily business without being accompanied by a small army of men.

And most importantly, Yuuri wasn’t blind to how more commoners appeared outside the palace gates every day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 The last thing Yuuri remembered was feeling overbearingly cold.

Then he was thrust into the hallway leading to Victor’s quarters, another night of the Taking coming before he blinked. Yuuri stood in front of Victor’s bedroom’s door, defunct and hypnotized, feeling something ominous from the other side in hefty waves, all of it unmistakably directed toward Yuuri.

Something oozed out that was as inviting as it was repellent, and suddenly Yuuri was attuned and awakened, hand reaching out to turn the knob before he thought better of it.

 _“Yuuri.”_ Like a doll pulled by its puppeteer, Yuuri’s body slipped into the room, hurtling into strong arms before having a chance to take in his surroundings. Rough hands grabbed at his waist and a broad chest pushed against his feverishly. “My beautiful, precious Yuuri. I’ve missed you. I missed you. I missed you so much.”

Yuuri’s breaths came out in dissonance. He couldn’t see a single thing as the entire scene around him was smeared in incremental darkness. But a dash of silver hair and a hint of blue eyes was everything Yuuri needed to see before throwing his arms the man’s neck. It was Victor, that’s all he needed to know. It was Victor, and he _wanted_ Yuuri.

“I cannot bear it anymore.” Victor’s voice, reedy and visceral, sent chills down his spine. “I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you. I love you more than anyone. More than anything.”

The confession felt so natural to Yuuri’s ears, like he had heard it coming from the Tsar’s mouth many times before. The mere words made Yuuri sigh contently, the tiny sound turning into a whine in his throat a second later.

That alone was what broke Victor’s restraint, as the Tsar finally, _finally_ began replenishing Yuuri’s lips, sealing them with his own and ridding them of their unfair despondency.

 _Oh, yes._ Yuuri kissed him back like he had been starving for it. _At last. At last. Oh,_ **_at last-_ **

Yuuri woke up gasping, so loudly his throat hurt.

Panicked and already sitting up, he grabbed the end of his sheets, tossed them aside in a haste, and saw, with horror, that the front of his trousers was soiled.

He put his hands on the sides of his face, squeezing his cheeks and groaning in utter shame.

He… he had an orgasm dreaming about Victor merely _kissing_ him.

And Victor… Victor was saying these _things,_ things that he won’t ever say in real life, things that Yuuri would _never_ want to hear.

Yuuri felt so embarrassed he wanted to die.

His entire body shivered, and Yuuri looked toward his fireplace, heeding the smothered fire he had forgotten to renew before he collapsed on his bed.

With a sigh, he began to move out of his comfortable position, knowing he had to change his clothes and make a fresh fire before he froze to death in his own room.

He couldn’t shake off the anger and frustration as he worked, because Yuuri felt _humiliated;_ even remembering that godforsaken dream made his cheeks red. He had heard of this sort of thing happening to _adolescent boys,_ boys who were as old as Otabek and younger, not someone like him, a twenty year old grown man, and a sex slave to boot.

Yet, just the memory of how sinfully _good_ it felt was enough to arouse him all over again.

Irritated, he tossed one last log into the fireplace and watched it burn hotly, just like his unsedated desires.

And at that moment, Yuuri finally made a decision to put an end to this absurdness.

 _The next time I’m with him,_ he told himself, determined, all resolve breaking. _I will make him touch me. I won't leave before I do._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 As expected, Yuuri couldn’t get a blink of sleep after that.

“You are very kind, sir.” The woman next to him said for the fourth time during that walk. “I’m sorry for troubling you, really.”

It was one of those windy afternoons when the dark was barely settling and the majority of the castle residents were either in their rooms taking naps to relieve the tiredness of the day, or doing chores that they didn’t have time for later at night.

Yuuri, however, was too restless to remain in his room, so he decided to stroll around the seemingly empty castle, finally finding some time alone with himself, Emil having been dismissed for the day.

That’s when he spotted one of Victor’s handmaidens, and curiosity got the best of him.

The Tsar had many, many servants who were always by his side, flocking around him, ready at all times for any demand he would or could have. Yet, this one was special, Yuuri knew, because this one was without a doubt Victor’s favourite.

She was one of the four handmaidens who always prepared him for the Taking every fortnight, the one who told Yuuri how Victor felt during his own sessions, and she was the one who gave him the towel and pushed Yuuri to enter Victor’s washroom that day.

She was also the only one Victor bothered to exchange words with, no, had _conversations_ with. Whenever Victor needed to dress, whenever Victor had a random chore, it was that woman who got called, and the Tsar always spared at least a few minutes to chat happily with her, like close companions rather than master and servant.

And, admittedly, it made Yuuri envious, for he never stopped struggling when it came to figuring out how to _talk_ with the Tsar like a proper human being.

She always made it a point to treat Yuuri with kindness. The sort of kindness he received from her, however, always felt like it had hidden intentions behind it.

Because more or less, that handmaiden looked at him as if she knew something he didn’t, and it amused her.

And Yuuri wondered, had always wondered what it was, since the Tsar must’ve confided in her in a way he would never do with Yuuri.

“It’s nothing, miss.” Yuuri told her, “Besides, this basket seemed very heavy.”

“Oh, please call me Bella.” Pretty blue eyes, as navy as the silky skirts she was wearing, narrowed sweetly. “I am soon to be a missus, you see.” She held her hand in front of her proudly, her fingers separating to reveal a glinting silver band. “I’ll be happy to lose the title as quickly as possible.”

Yuuri eyed the ring, awed at the sight. “Congratulations, Bella.”

“Thank you, Yuuri,” nothing about her gratefulness seemed forced. “And I apologize for constantly smiling inappropriately; I just can’t help myself!”

Something about that woman’s joy, so completely foreign to him, made Yuuri chuckle in amazement. “Smile as much as you want.”

“Is that so?” she laughed back, “Can I boast as much as I want as well? Because I feel like I might _explode_ otherwise.”

Slightly uncomfortable, but still curious, Yuuri adjusted the basket of clothes in his hands and said, “Go ahead, please.”

“Oh, he’s such a perfect man, my betrothed!” the word made Yuuri’s heart sink, but she continued, unguarded. “Considerate beyond words. Charming beyond limits. Handsome beyond belief. And he’s from a very respected Noble house on top of it all. What more could a woman ask for?” she wrapped her hands together and brought them to her chin, looking so much like a smitten woman it was slightly comical. “My darling knight. He might be overly proud at times, but he’s humble when he needs to be. You must have heard of him, haven’t you?” she didn’t even wait for Yuuri to answer. “Of course you have! He is, after all, his Majesty’s most capable knight. No one in this castle, no, _empire,_ is capable of disarming him. Just thinking of being called _‘Mrs. Leroy’_ brings a blush to my face!”

Yuuri couldn’t help how his smile slowly turned genuine, all suspicions gone as he began to take a liking to her, “Mister Leroy is a very fortunate man, then.”

“No, Yuuri, no,” she grabbed onto his arm, grinning, “The fortunate one is _I._ Oh, our romance, Yuuri, it’s something you can never even imagine-” she paused, laughing sheepishly at herself, “How silly of me to say that...”

“No, no,” Yuuri assured her, feeling very amused and wanting nothing other than to hear her talk more about her happiness, her love. Listening to Bella was like reading a very unrealistic romance novel. It kind of made him think the world wasn’t such a dark place, after all. “Don’t stop on my account...”

“Yuuri, I’m talking like you _don’t_ understand; I forgot who you were for a second.” Bella explained, abashed, “But taking things into account, our romance comes quite short, doesn’t it?” she blushed, giggling away, “What you and his Majesty have, after all, is the stuff of dreams...”

In his shock, Yuuri’s feet stopped moving, his walk coming to a sudden stop and the basket almost falling from his grip.

His eyes almost bulged out of his head as Yuuri stared at her, countless thoughts thundering in his head spontaneously. _What in the world is she talking about? Does she not know? Had Victor not told her?!_

Bella took no notice of his reaction, for her eyes detected a figure standing at a corner of the hallway and everything else was abruptly forgotten. A dazzling smile made its way to her face, her eyes warming with nothing but pure, unconditional love.

“Isabella.”

The voice came from a very tall, very muscular man a few feet in front of them, and from what Yuuri could tell by his outfit, he was definitely a royal knight.

“I shall leave you two alone.” Yuuri all but dashed out of the hallway, leaving the couple alone without hearing Bella’s response, his heart still racing, his breathing still haggard, and his brain still throbbing with conflicted thoughts.

Before he completely left them, Yuuri took one glance behind his shoulder and couldn’t help but see some sort of familiarity in the way Leroy stared at his fiancé, his eyes all but glittering, his smile golden, and his hand soft and loving on her cheek.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri was exiting the laundry room, mindless of the people washing their clothes behind him, when he heard it for the first time and almost didn’t believe it.

“Yuuri.”

Startled, he slowly turned, as if a ghost had spoken to him, a ghost that, when she was alive, had never once uttered his name, had never once addressed him with something that wasn’t derogatory or belittling.

Having just washed her clothes, her yellow skirt was tied at her side, parts of it wet and turning orange. Her slim calves were now exposed all the way to her knees. Yuuri never noticed how pale she truly was until then.

“I need to speak to you. Privately.” Bianca said, her tone akin to a plea. She nodded her head toward her right. “Follow me.”

“No.” Yuuri answered her bluntly, walking in the opposite direction as if this exchange never took place.

He was halfway back from where he came from when Yuuri heard frantic footsteps behind him. _“Yuuri,”_ Bianca rasped out, running to catch up to him. Hearing her say his name wasn’t any less unsettling the second time. “I do not intend to _hurt_ you!”

She had done enough of that already; there was no way Bianca could hurt him more than she already had. It was the fact that Yuuri didn’t _want_ to look at her face that made him so distant and cold.

“I just want to speak to you...” she whispered a curse, grabbing him by the elbow and whirling him around. “Stop avoiding me like I’m some sort of disease, damn it!”

Bianca was a tall woman and almost reached Yuuri’s height, but he still felt like he was looking down at her when their faces came only centimetres apart. Two pairs of brown eyes, one much more empty and blank than the other, locked together, unfaltering, the events that occurred between the two making it seem like they’d known each other for a lifetime.

Up close, Yuuri could see the full extent of her disheveledness, and what an uncanny transformation it was. Bianca was nothing but a shell of her former self; the past five months had surely drained the soul out of her, slowly and painfully, leaving a woman who reeked of sadness, despair, and defeat. Her short hair was neglected and unkempt, the puffy eyes and hollow cheeks became a permanent part of her face, and her body no longer looked healthy, no, if anything, it looked fragile and breakable.

“In a way, you are.” Yuuri replied, not even slightly apologetic. He snatched his elbow from her grip easily, but he made no move to keep walking or make more distance between them. Certainly, she’d take it as a sign of weakness if he did.

“Listen, you... _you-”_ Bianca clenched her teeth and, with visible effort, stopped herself from cursing him. “Yuuri,” she exhaled his name. It gave him nothing but goosebumps. “I… The New Year is approaching, and I’ll be departing from the imperial palace in less than two weeks.”

Yuuri answered with a quirk of his eyebrow, wondering why she was telling him something he was already aware of, something that Yuuri was counting the days for.

“It’s nothing I haven’t been prepared to face. In fact, it’s a miracle that I’ve managed prolong my stay this far...” Bianca’s lashes fluttered in exhaustion. “But as it is, I might regret it for the rest of my life if I left without apologizing to you first.”

Yuuri wanted to laugh in earnest.

 _What_ **_is_ ** _this madness?_ He thought to himself. _What is the world coming to?_

The Bianca he knew would never consider apologizing, because she’ll know that Yuuri wouldn’t want it, would have never considered it, and would have never asked for it even if it was presented to him. The Bianca he knew would be aware that nothing she does or try to do will erase what she had done.

Instead, his disbelief came out in the form of a tight smile, which Bianca had taken for permission to proceed. For some reason, Yuuri didn’t stop her.

“I’m not a heartless woman.” Was the first thing Bianca said to explain herself, and Yuuri strongly begged to differ. “I’ve always known what I was doing was wrong and unjust. And trust me, _believe_ me when I say that I’ll forever regret what I had done.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.“I apologize to you, Yuuri. I apologize for all the hurt I had caused you, I apologize for every instant my control slipped.” Bianca chuckled, wincing like she was in physical pain. “And I’ll have you know… I’ve never once believed in witchcraft.”

Yuuri’s jaw clenched. _Useless,_ he wanted to shout. _All these words are useless._

He’d never want _Aki_ to apologize for giving him years of suffocating loneliness, the clergy for being the one to force Yuuri to escape, the merchant for stripping him from his dreams, the Noble for kickstarting his four years of pure misery, or the Madams for ruining him.

Yuuri didn’t want an apology, no matter the person uttering it, no matter the reason behind it.

But Yuuri desperately wanted, for once in his life, to _understand._

 _“Why?”_ he bit out, trying his hardest to not show any change of expression, no matter how angry, how _vexed_ he was. “Why _did_ you do it?”

“I knew it was wrong.” She confessed, “But… but there was… there was this _anger,_ this resentment inside me,” her hands tightened into fists by her sides. “All directed towards you, towards the _Tsar,_ that I could never control. Doing all these things to you was the only safe way I could let it out, the only way I could think of in my helpless state.”

Again, Yuuri heard nothing he wasn’t already aware of. It frustrated him even more. “You talk vaguely.”

She shook her head. “You do not want to hear a clearer explanation.”

He grabbed her arm, and if possible, brought their faces even closer together, giving Bianca a start. His grip was shaking in barely hidden rage. “Trust me. I _do._ I’ll never forgive you if you don’t tell me.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness, no more than you want my apology.” She hissed through pursed lips. “All I ask of you is one request. You can choose to not to-”

“Tell me why and I might consider it.” Yuuri said, desperate to know the truth. “Otherwise, I’ll leave right this instant.”

That seemed an effective enough of a threat, as she relented once Yuuri loosened his grip.

He watched her as she looked straight into his eyes with increasing apprehension, as if she was seeing a window to all her past mistakes. He watched her suffer as she went through the memories, trying to bring her reasons back to life.

And at last, the long-awaited words started to pour out.

“I’ve always known.” Bianca smiled mournfully. “I’ve known since the moment I first saw you enter the harem. I knew I was doomed.” Tears were slowly accumulating in the corner of her eyes. “I knew I had no other choice but to hate you. I knew he wanted you, and only you, the night he entered the harem, looked at each of us, and left because you weren’t there. I mean, how could I not have known it was you his Majesty was looking for?

“I thought that, if I pushed hard enough and let him have you, then it would end, once and for all. That’s it, he won’t come back and make you his first favourite, he’d move on to the next. Even when it finally happened, I still had a sliver of hope that he won’t choose you, that you weren’t that special to him as I had feared. Oh, I’ve never been more mistaken in my life.”

Her eyes travelled upward, like she was confessing her sins to God.

“You have no idea what it’s like to love someone you know you could _never_ have. Not in this life, and possibly not even in paradise. In fact... I don’t think you know what love even is, Yuuri.” She squeezed her eyes shut, letting one tear fall, then opened them again. “But let me enlighten you. It’s wicked, it’s possessive, and it’s nothing but torment. It makes you hateful toward everyone and everything when you don’t get anything back from it, nothing but _pain._ It’s the sort of pain you’ve never dealt with before, the sort that makes you almost lose your sanity when you watch the person you love being taken by someone else right before your eyes. And you _know_ then, you know that you could never do anything but watch helplessly, you know you cannot compete, that you’re worlds away from ever coming close, that you’re nothing but a fly at their presence.

“Ah, I’ve lived in poverty for as long as I could remember, scrapping for food, dignity nonexistent when faced with hunger.” She smiled again, but everything about it bled sadness. “So, life after I was captured was significantly better. I’ve never once hated being a slave, truth be told. Not until I met you.” Bianca finally let her eyes go back to Yuuri’s face. “And here’s your reason. Are you satisfied?”

“I mean this not as praise,” Yuuri told her, bitter that his suspicions had been correct, that once again, nothing he heard had been new. “But I truly thought you’re smarter than that.” The conversation felt intimate, as if Yuuri was not only talking to her but to a part of him as well. “Falling in love with a man like the Tsar, who’s so beyond a concubine’s reach, who can dispose of you at any moment. A man whom you can never stand next to as an equal, who would never love you the way you want him to.” His resentment toward her was carried heavily with his next words. “You should have known the moment you received your golden armlet, not the moment you saw _me.”_

Bianca’s laugh rang through every corner of the hallway it could reach.

Yuuri gaped at her, worried that the last bit of sanity finally left the other concubine, judging by the way her whole body was spasming.

“It’s so like you to say this. It’s _so like you,_ damn it!” she was laughing still, but nothing about it had any hint of humour. It was nothing but manic laughter, crazy and unstable. If anything, it sounded like she was talking through pained sobs. Bianca breathed in, brought her hand to his cheek, and looked at him fondly. “It’s so like you to think I was talking about the Tsar...”

Yuuri felt like his entire body had been dipped in ice cold water.

He became paralyzed, the tips of his fingers and toes stung, his eyes stopped blinking, and only then did he realize how close their faces were, how Bianca’s lingering gaze slowly moved downward, settling on his parted lips.

She leaned in, almost sealing the small gap between them, and Yuuri did not know what happened after that.

Those few moments were a complete blur, since the next thing he saw was Bianca staggering a few feet away, nearly losing her balance and falling.

Yuuri looked down at his outstretched, flexed, and trembling hand, and feared that he might’ve hit her.

His fears did not linger because, after looking at her incredulously, he started to remember.

Bianca was about to kiss him. She was about to kiss him, _him,_ Yuuri, her arch nemesis, after she had confessed her love, her _love for him._ And, his breath hitched, if Yuuri had not covered her mouth by his palm and pushed her away with all his strength, both of them would’ve been hanged the next morning.

“Now you know.” Bianca spat as she steadied herself, her pride visibly wounded. “It’s about bloody time you finally noticed.”

“No.” Yuuri shook his head, taking a few more steps backwards, still unnerved by how he had mindlessly allowed the distance between them to become so small just a few moments ago. “No. _No!_ **_No!”_** he yelled, on the edge of being hysteric. “No! You lie! You’re a liar!”

 _That’s it,_ his mind justified. _She tried to lure me into a trap, that’s what she was doing. She tried to set me up and make me do an act of treachery so she can have me hanged. That’s it. That’s it._

“How dare you?!” Yuuri went on, “You can’t, you _can’t_ say that! I won’t believe it! Not after everything you had done-”

“Spare me.” Bianca snarled. “The one thing worse than rejection is denial. I’ve been humiliated enough for one day. So spare me.”

“No.” Yuuri repeated, more to himself, because she sounded too genuine, too truthful. _“No…”_

“I’ve done my end of the bargain, so here’s yours.” Bianca spoke, trying her hardest to ignore Yuuri’s harsh remarks. “My request is very simple. I just wish before I part with you forever, to hear you once say my name. That’s… that’s all I ask of you.”

She stared at the floor, rubbing the length of her arm, her head ducked and her shame painstakingly apparent.

And at that moment, when he heard that mundane, pointless request coming from her mouth, as if it meant the entire world to her, Yuuri finally came in terms with the fact that Bianca wasn’t _lying._

He should have known. He should have known that that godforsaken dream was nothing but a terrible omen.

His subconsciousness wasn’t trying to torture him, no, it had been trying to warn Yuuri of something that could make him lose his grip on reality, that could finally break him beyond repair.

And there was the confession he had dreamed of coming alive, but it came from a mouth that wasn’t Victor’s, in a way which he could never hear it again and not think of _her_ and the anguish she caused him.

Bianca had managed, mercilessly, to turn one word that in every existing language stood for the same thing, into something polarly opposite, something that Yuuri would want to die before ever being exposed to it again.

Yuuri was able to collect his bearings long enough to allow the resentment to pour in, more intense than it had ever been before, which was something he could have never imagined was possible.

“Bianca of Rome...” his tongue protested with each syllable that passed through it. “I shall never forget you.”

The surprise was clear on the concubine’s face, and Yuuri was glad she looked at him with so much appreciation and gratitude, and perhaps the love she spoke of.

“You see, I have met countless cruel people in my life, as any other slave would,” he told the unsuspecting woman, whose ears perked in interest, for Yuuri never spoke of that part of his past to anyone. Anyone. And it fit, it fit so _well_ that Bianca was the one to hear about it. “I’ve met men who were more monstrous than human. I have been beaten until my bones broke. I have been sexually abused until I started loathing my own body. I have been starved. I have been betrayed. I have been abandoned. I have been broken both physically and mentally.” He paused, and the next part came out with a voice Yuuri did not recognize as his own. “You, however, you somehow managed to be the most vile of them all.” Yuuri’s words were harsh, piercing, and they seemed to hit where it hurt the most. He took a moment to relish the pain she was exhibiting so generously. _Good. Good. Go rot in hell._ “You’re correct, I’ve never loved, and never will. But if love means making another person’s life utterly unbearable, forcing them to consider suicide time and time again, then I wish to never love _anyone._ All I feel, and all I’ve ever felt towards you, is searing _hatred.”_ He tilted his head, thinking of one final line to hurt her in a way it could be engraved in her memory. “I hope to never see your face again for as long as I live.”

With that, feeling completely and wholly satisfied, Yuuri turned around and continued his way, paying no mind to the stream of broken sobs he left behind. Growing, growing in intensity, growing in volume, and, to his twisted pleasure, growing in heartache.

_“You’re cruel!”_

Those were the last words Bianca had ever said to him, and even decades after that one windy afternoon, even when Yuuri would start to fade with age, losing bits and bits of the memories accompanying that woman, those words would be the only thing that he’d never forget from Bianca of Rome.

And he’d only reminisce about them, not an ounce of hatred or resentment left in his body toward her, because then, then Yuuri would know that those were the words that had changed his life.

 _You’re crazy!_ At that moment, however, all he wanted to do was whirl around and shout after her. _How can_ **_I_ ** _be the cruel one after everything you’ve done?!_

And there, at the end of the hallway, far enough to not be seen, but close enough to hear every word of the exchange that took place, Yuuri spotted a phantom of a person making their retreat, the end of their skirts visible to his eyes before they disappeared completely.

Skirts. Blue skirts. Blue silky skirts. The same blue silky skirts Victor’s most favourite handmaiden was wearing earlier that day.

Yuuri hung his head and closed his eyes in despair.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It only took three hours.

Three hours for Isabella Yang to inform the Tsar of what she had witnessed. Three hours for his Majesty to make a decision. And three hours for the royal guards to come and escort Yuuri to the north wing.

 _‘Words travel faster than wind,’_ Phichit had said wisely. _‘And even walls have ears.’_

“Yuuri...” Emil said through the enclosing silence. “Have you done something when I was not watching you?”

“Nothing you could have prevented.” Yuuri assured him, his voice steady and disinterested.

“Yuuri...”

“Honest, Emil.” Yuuri said, following a royal guard in front of them and hearing the rustle come from the other two behind. “Someone said inappropriate things to me. It would’ve happened regardless if you were there or not.”

“Yuuri-”

“It was not an attack.” Yuuri went on. “Not verbal. Not physical. So you won’t-”

 _“Yuuri,”_ Emil raised his voice, receiving questioning looks from the men surrounding them. Frustrated, he uttered the next words closer to Yuuri’s ears. “I’m not worried about that, I’m worried about _you.”_

Feeling strangely detached from the situation, Yuuri took his eyes off from the pretty glint on the guard’s golden armour and met Emil’s worried gaze, “But why would you?”

Yuuri hadn’t anything wrong, had he? He had pushed Bianca away, had prevented her approach and rejected her twisted feelings toward him on the spot. Unless Bella chose to lie - which Yuuri doubted, since she had absolutely no reason to - he didn’t need to worry about being punished.

“It’s the look on the guards’ faces that’s troubling me...” Emil whispered so said guards won’t hear. “I can tell from that alone that his Majesty is not calling you for a happy occasion.”

Yuuri hummed in response.

Maybe it wasn’t a happy occasion, maybe the Tsar just wanted to see Yuuri in order to inform him about Bianca’s punishment. The Tsar, for sure, wouldn’t be upset with _him._

That’s right. Victor wouldn’t be upset. Yuuri was Victor’s favourite. His darling. He made him read a book for four months just so he could hear the sound of his voice.

For a moment, those were so unlike Yuuri’s normal and turbulent thoughts that it _scared_ him. His anxiety was taking an unusual leave of absence, and he felt his whole character change without it constantly being there.

It was as if hurting Bianca had given him peace of mind, as if Yuuri had just been fed by her suffering, as if someone’s misery was his new favourite meal and his appetite had finally been sedated.

He heard the whistling of hinges and Yuuri thought the servants really needed to oil the doors of the Tsar’s quarters more often.

Soon he was walking down the narrow corridor once again, like he had done countless times before, but this time with no delay, no concerns, and no reflections, just plain curiosity and a desire to get it over with as quickly as possible. He realized, faintly, that he had been so absent-minded he missed what Emil tried to tell him before they were separated.

It will all dawn on him soon, Yuuri knew, but he was going to panic and maybe have another episode when he did so, therefore he didn’t mind being in that nonchalant, eerie state. As long as it would have him, at least.

He stared at the mahogany door of Victor’s bedroom, finally _feeling_ something for the first time in three hours, and that something was disbelief.

Yuuri must have been imagining it, surely he must.

He shook his head a short second later, dismissing it as nothing but a hallucination.

Because there was no way he could actually have sensed something ominous behind Victor’s bedroom door, coming in with hefty waves, all of it unmistakably directed toward Yuuri. Something as inviting as it was repellent.

 _That_ was the stuff of dreams.

Since he really didn’t have much energy for exaggerated and loud courtesy, Yuuri savoured the warmth inside Victor’s bedroom and was about to quietly state his greetings, but he stopped dead on his tracks before he could, taken aback by the scene before him.

He blinked wordlessly.

Wine glass in hand, the Tsar was only a few feet away, standing on the bearskin rug in the centre of the room, his side to Yuuri. Victor’s feet were bare, he saw, his hair was wet and falling against his cheeks, two or three strands sticking on the area under his right eye. His face was slightly flushed, from the hot bath he took, or the wine he’d been drinking, Yuuri wasn’t sure. He was wearing a silky sleeping attire as black as the kohl dressing Yuuri’s eyes, the top unbuttoned all the way down.

Had he been pacing around the room? Was Victor really that impatient to see him?

Yuuri couldn’t hold on to that idea much longer, because his thought process instantly broke apart when the naked skin of Victor’s pale chest landed in his vision. His heart lurched, excitement coursed through his veins, and the lower half of his body really appreciated the unusual but delightful sight. Victor rarely allowed himself to look that casual, and it was just so undeniably attractive to him, possessively so, since no one could see Victor like that but _him._

Moreover, he hadn’t seen the Tsar naked since the night they first had sex, so Yuuri couldn’t help but be entranced by the mere strip of skin and muscle, as pathetic as it was. Pathetic and silly, because Yuuri found that even the Tsar’s feet, buried in the fur like that, looked smooth and white and delicate, and never before in his life did he care about anyone’s feet.

Yuuri gulped, fighting the rampant thoughts running wild in his head, and forced his gaze to meet the Tsar’s, his belated greetings on the tip of his tongue.

Then, the wine glass was being flung across the room.

The suddenness of the action made his breath catch. Yuuri blinked some more, his lips parting in shock. It should have reminded him of the time Victor threw another wine glass at the wall, shattering it to pieces in his rage, but it didn’t. The glass did not break; Victor didn’t throw it as much as he carelessly tossed it aside, like he wanted it out of the way.

It happened in less than a second, and with his now empty hand in the air, the Tsar beckoned him to come closer using only his forefinger, no words uttered as he looked at Yuuri sharply, unsmiling.

Something about that quick gesture he made, so unlike the usual attentive, talkative, and cooing Victor, made Yuuri obey him instantly, for it was a command more powerful than any words he could hear that night.

But Yuuri didn’t seem to be obeying fast enough, because he barely managed to walk halfway there when the Tsar lost his patience and grabbed him by his arm, pulling Yuuri flush against his chest.

Nervousness found its home again, creeping into his body in alarm, but Yuuri appreciated that at least for now, he wasn’t fully panicking.

“Are you upset?” Yuuri looked up in a daze, utterly confused. “Please tell me if you are, your-”

The Tsar’s blue eyes twitched ever so slightly, whatever Yuuri had said seemed to do the exact opposite of what he intended, as Victor immediately silenced him with a hand touching his jaw, tilting it upward.

Yuuri’s face began to heat up, partly because he felt chastised, and partly because Victor’s touch was still as gentle as a lover’s caress. Yuuri felt no threat, for some reason, and only focused on the proximity between them, reminding him of how badly he _longed_ for any sort of contact.

Victor’s eyes drew to his mouth, watching it like it was a jewel, and before Yuuri could tell him that no, he _swears_ Bianca did not kiss him, Victor sealed the space between them with the firmest peck on the lips.

Yuuri couldn’t even react by the Tsar leaned away and cupped Yuuri’s cheek, thumbing at his lower lip and pulling it down with the pad of his finger. Some of the tension on his face dissipated, he saw.

He didn’t know what came over Victor, why he seemed so agitated, or why he had kissed him like that, but Yuuri was painfully aware that their bodies were still glued together, the other man’s nakedness now in direct contact with Yuuri’s clothed chest. The ghost of Victor’s lips still haunted his own and Yuuri’s mind and body went astray with desire. Despite not acting like himself, soft and calm and attentive, it was Victor’s _unusual_ self, the upset and agitated and impatient, that had taken him to bed the last time.

And Yuuri wanted that, god, he _wanted_ that.

Yuuri wasn’t thinking, because who was he to fight such a ruthless pull? It had been a month, a _month_ of long, indigent, and unfulfilling stares, a month of lewd thoughts and unsatisfied needs.

Controlled by those desires, Yuuri pushed on his feet, squeezed his eyes shut, and closed the distance between them once again, this time with a real kiss, a desperate and sure kiss that screamed of wanting, of wanting much more.

Yuuri inhaled a sharp, loud breath when Victor kissed him back instantly, almost desperately, the Tsar’s hand slipping down to grab the small of Yuuri’s back, pushing their bodies together in another soft collision.    

The smacking of their lips, vigorous and rushed, the sucking, the nibbling, and the long presses felt so _surreal._ The heady breaths, audible as much as Yuuri could feel them against his own mouth, was something he imagined before in his dirty fantasies.

But he knew, he _knew_ this one wasn’t a dream, he knew by the feel of Victor’s muscular shoulder blades when he ran his hands against them, he knew by the scent of roses and lavender filling his nose, by the twirl of a wet tongue inside his mouth, tinged with sweet wine, mapping it out to get the best reactions out of him as it can.

And it did, because Yuuri’s breaths turned frantic, his throat released whining noises, and his hands grabbed on blindly, tightly on Victor’s back, pulling in opposite directions in hopes of getting rid of the top and revealing what was beneath.

Yuuri’s head craned back, Victor’s mouth turning more and more forceful against his until it pained his neck to stay that way. Yuuri reached behind Victor’s head, pulling him away by the hair to align them better.

Victor grunted, gasped quickly for breath, then proceeded to kiss him even more violently, his fingers digging into Yuuri’s skin.

Victor liked that, Yuuri urged himself to remember for a later time, if there ever was any, and while he did so he felt himself being pulled forward, his body being led to the bed by Victor’s long but uncoordinated steps.

 _Yes._ Yuuri couldn’t contain his excitement, and if his mouth wasn’t being so deliciously occupied, he would’ve been shouting these words in triumph. **_Yes._ **

His past self would’ve been horrified to find him in this state, but Yuuri decided that his past self knew nothing and all he did was waste their time and deny him of this pleasure he so desperately craved.

Suddenly Victor’s body slipped under him, their mouths parting with a shining thread of saliva. Yuuri managed to catch two long breaths before his body was pulled downward.

Yuuri fell on Victor’s lap, the mattress dipping with their combined weight as their lips reconnected. His neck strained even more now, back arching lewdly and hands falling flat on the sheets behind Victor.

The Tsar grabbed him by the sides, his grip rough and slightly painful as he pulled Yuuri’s body fore and up, all the way until they were in the middle of the bed. Yuuri’s head was on top of Victor’s this time, his arms wrapped around his neck to keep himself steady until he found himself locked in an embrace, an embrace of the best kind, of moving lips, seeking hands, and brushing groins.

Victor dragged Yuuri’s already riled shirt to his armpits and promptly broke their ravaging kisses, head bending down and lips latching on one of Yuuri’s nipples instead. He sucked on the bud and Yuuri threw his head back, moaning involuntarily.

Wanting to hear that sound again, Victor jerked his hips against his, and Yuuri couldn’t hold himself back from making any filthy sounds after that. Especially when the Tsar grabbed his behind, squeezing but never pausing from his other movements, and Yuuri, at that point, was left writhing like an animal in heat.

It was obscene, it was obscene how insanely _good_ Victor was at this. Yuuri was all but a captive under his deliberate and practised ministrations, every move driving away more and more of his wits. It was obscene, it was obscene because Yuuri might reach his climax just like that, just with those hands, mouth, and friction between their clothed cocks.

This was so unlike the dream. There were no sweet words, no love confessions, and no gentle touches. But this one was _real,_ not ending with just one kiss, and Yuuri didn’t intend it to stop anytime soon, either. His hands, knuckles white as they grabbed tightly on Victor’s shoulders, found purpose when they, persistently this time, moved to discard the man’s loose top.

Victor stopped everything he was doing and moved his arms behind him, allowing Yuuri to strip him while he did nothing but stare, his chest raised with his laboured breaths. It was that same look again on the Tsar’s face, the look of a starving man eyeing a feast.

Yuuri tried, but he was unable to maintain eye contact when Victor was finally topless, the black silk sliding down and exposing the flex of his muscles in that position, and damn him, Yuuri _loved_ Victor’s shoulders, he could spend days carving them out and would never be satisfied.

His eyes might’ve not been able to revel in the sight, since Victor’s lips were back the moment the man was freed, silencing him, distracting him, then leaving him in a daze when his mouth moved to suck under his jaw, forcing Yuuri to mewl when his teeth grazed the tender skin there. But Yuuri still wanted to feel them as his hands cupped at those gorgeous naked muscles, stroking every curve and dip, admiring, appreciating, _memorizing._

And memorizing he did, because sometime later, as he lay naked on his back, breathless, panting, and his whole body moving up and down with every harsh inhale, Yuuri wouldn’t be able to remember much from their lovemaking except for the feel of Victor’s shoulders against his fingertips. His memory of it was so vivid he was sure he could sculpt a statue of it with his eyes closed.

The rest of it was a blur of limbs, of loud huffs and filthy moans. It was two bodies desperately seeking one another, skin sliding against skin, clothes being discarded quickly, bruising kisses stolen in a haste. It was of pinning hands, of begging, of a scream, and of an untamable, but finally attainable release.  

His sanity was slowly returning the more he stared at the ceiling, the Tsar no longer lying beside him. With the absence of the other man’s warmth and the sudden clarity after his ripping orgasm, Yuuri soon realized that his eyes and cheeks weren’t wet due to sweat alone; tears had now joined them.

Because alas, with his sanity came the apprehension and fear and horror and _that’s_ when everything finally dawned on him.

The lighting in the room seemed to dim as he heard Victor move around the bed, the flames of the kindled candles swayed, forming dancing shadows against all surfaces, and Yuuri’s tongue moved inside his closed mouth, in sync with the shadows, the words fighting to come out.

He shouldn’t say it. He shouldn’t mention it. He should forget it now and forever. He shouldn’t even dare bring it up.

But of course, Yuuri did, because Yuuri was a foolish man who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Please don’t hang her.”

Victor’s padded steps halted for a heavy second before they went on, and that’s about all the response Yuuri received.

“Her… her blood will be on _my_ hands.” Yuuri hid his face with the inside of his elbow, not daring to look at the Tsar in the eye. His request turned into a plea. “Please, _please_ don’t-”

Yuuri’s body jerked when he heard the door of the washroom slam shut.

 _He did not say a single word,_ Yuuri thought, completely alone in the bedroom, worry and panic consuming him. _Not then, and not once since I came here._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri wondered why sleeping with the Tsar always felt like a mistake.

Perhaps if Victor didn’t look so dejected every time, he wouldn’t, because Yuuri himself no longer cared. In fact, his problem wasn’t the sex, his problem was anything but the sex.

As he watched Victor enter the room again, fully clothed and his hair still a mess from Yuuri’s earlier fondling, as he watched his back when the emperor settled in front of the small table, producing a fresh serving of wine, as he watched him sit down on a couch with his legs crossed and face filled with nothing but dissatisfaction, Yuuri felt overwhelmed by how frustrating it was to not know what Victor _wanted_ from him.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Yuuri tried to not show his displeasure and focus instead on the red patch on the floor, a result of the wine that had spilt earlier. Yuuri had his trousers back on him and was about to slip into his top, his arms already inside the sleeves, but he couldn’t ignore the discerning feel of Victor’s eyes on his naked back anymore.

With caution, Yuuri looked behind his shoulder, gaze instantly locking with the Tsar’s.

Victor stared at him for a long time and did not move nor speak. His pupils were dilated still, yet his pretty blue eyes no longer held the usual shine they had. He seemed extremely unfocused, and when he finally spoke, his voice was eerily distant.

“Yuuri,” he cocked his head to the side, regarding him with an amused and sardonic look. It struck him that his Majesty might’ve been slightly drunk.

“Do you love me?”

Yuuri’s slumped shoulders turned stiff, so did his entire body, and he couldn’t help but look away. His breaths were quickening in pace and the pressure of that absolutely _bizarre_ question was spreading through the air around him.

This was the first thing Victor said that night, and the Tsar was not making any sense. Yuuri strongly blamed the wine he had been drinking for that.

Because Yuuri, having already forgotten half the things he told Bianca when he was in that state of anger, thought it was nothing else but a drunken taunt, failing to see the connection between what he previously declared and Victor’s sudden question.

"Of course." Yuuri answered softly, not turning around to say it to his face. His voice quivered as he quickly put on his shirt and adjusted it. “Of… Of course, I do.”

Victor was completely quiet after that, making Yuuri more anxious by each passing second.

What else was there to say? Victor was the Tsar of Russia, for goodness sake, and Yuuri had to admit, he was a _good_ Tsar, one of the best this empire had ever had. He was a ruler who, thanks to him, a nation was prospering, a ruler who was kind to his people, his family, and even his servants and slaves given they don’t cross him. Everyone loved the Tsar, furthermore, he was by far Yuuri’s most decent owner. There was no reason to answer otherwise, even if he didn’t have the option to.

Victor, however, Victor drank the rest of his wine in three successive gulps, pointed the empty glass at Yuuri with a bitter smile, and said, “You're _cruel.”_

Yuuri’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped. More than the insult, more than the accusation, and more than _anything,_ the fact that Victor spoke the exact same words as Bianca troubled him the most.

He didn't like that, Yuuri decided, taking offence, no, not at all. He didn’t want Victor to remind him of her in any way, did not want the two to have any link to each other whatsoever.

And why did he call him that, anyway? Had Yuuri chosen the wrong answer? What did he want to hear him say, then? Did he want Yuuri to declare he hated the man? But that was _not_ true, at least not anymore. Victor wasn’t the monster he thought he was, he was not a saint either, Victor was just Victor.

The Tsar’s scathing look intensified the more Yuuri stared at him in disbelief, like Yuuri’s shock was something offensive to him.

But Yuuri was completely _lost,_ so lost he thought he had been hallucinating Victor saying these word _,_ he made it clear with his furrowed eyebrows and uncertain voice when he spoke. “Uh... your Majesty-”

 _“Don’t call me that!”_ Victor all but _shouted_ at him.

Before he realized what he was doing, Yuuri had jumped out of the bed, flinching away in shrewd fear.

Victor had never snapped at him like that before, not even once.

“I don't like it when you call me that!” the Tsar’s outburst went on, “And you know that very well, yet you _still_ do it!” he put the wine glass away haphazardly. “It's like you only do so to _spite me!”_

“I- I would never do such a thing…” Yuuri answered honestly, his voice trembling. “I wouldn’t do anything you don’t want me to...”

“Let’s not lie, shall we?” Victor lowered his voice but did not reduce the venom in it. It was then Yuuri realized that he had not been drunk, perhaps a bit tipsy if anything. _Angry,_ that’s what he was, the emperor was severely angry. “The one time, _the one time_ you spent the night with me, you left the first chance you had! And I’d be damned if I wanted you to…” Victor rubbed his face with both hands, leaning his head into them in frustration. “But of course, you know that as well. You always know what you're doing to me.”

Yuuri stood completely frozen and speechless, eyeing the Tsar like the man had lost his mind.

Did he think Yuuri angered him on purpose? That all of his reservation - which was a product of his constant fear of him and his incurable anxiety - was just a way for him to play with the Tsar? Did he honestly think that _he,_ Yuuri, would ever have it in him to plot such a thing?

But how could he?! He'd expect this kind of accusation from anyone else in the palace, in the empire, in the _world,_ but not from Victor, for he was the only human being whom Yuuri was openly vulnerable to, openly pathetic, openly scared and helpless. Had he not seen all of that?

 _“Speak.”_ Victor threw his hand in the air exaggeratedly. “Here’s your _permission.”_ He said it like it was a curse. “Go on, tell me why you’re doing this, or so help me God-”

“With all due respect,” Yuuri interrupted him snidely, his own voice raising beyond the volume of conversation. “You seem to forget that all I am is a _concubine_ in your harem.” Someone had said those words a long time ago, but he couldn’t remember who. “I won’t talk unless you allow me to. I won’t say your name when you don’t give me permission every time. I won’t stay in your bed not knowing whether you want me there or not.” His hands balled into fists, shaking in contempt. “I’m a _concubine.”_ He repeated, louder, firmer. “I do not want to be punished unwarranted. And neither would anyone else in my position.”

 _Neither would you!_ he wanted to scream, but he still had some sense not to.

The hands on Victor’s face now ruffled his silver hair. The whole action seemed so unlike him Yuuri wondered if it was still the same graceful man he knew. “After _all_ I’ve done for you- you still…”

He stopped talking, cutting himself off and leaving Yuuri still baffled and shaken. What did he _want_ from him? What did he think Yuuri wasn’t doing for him that he seemed so unfulfilled? So obviously _unhappy?_

 _When,_ Yuuri wanted to ask, his bruised lips shaking. _When will I ever be enough for you?_

“I don’t think of you as a concubine.”

Victor said it so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Yuuri could not trust he heard him right.

But Victor looked so subdued, like it had been something he’d been trying to convey for the longest time and couldn’t believe he had to directly say it, couldn’t believe he even _had_ to.

Yuuri waited, he waited desperately for Victor to take these words back, to realize how utterly unfair they were, how harsh, how _idiotic._ But the Tsar wasn’t, he merely stared at Yuuri, seeking his reaction.

So Yuuri had to do it for him instead, because that was enough, _enough._ He could take no more. Yuuri had to put his foot down on the amount of hurt the other man was causing him, show him that there was a line in their relationship that even a powerful emperor cannot bend at his will.

Yuuri couldn’t be calm anymore, not when he had reached his utmost limit. _“But that does not change the fact that_ **_I am_ ** _one!”_

Victor scowled, perhaps because of what his words meant, or perhaps because Yuuri was screaming them on top of his lungs.

But Yuuri’s anger was barely seeping through, for there was much more underneath, so much waiting to escape the cracks. Letting himself be driven by it, Yuuri started toward Victor, his footsteps thunderous and his chest forward as if he was going to attack the other man.

Instead, he pulled at his sleeve when he was a few feet away, his grip shaking as he showed the Tsar something he seemed to ignore easily. “Do you not see it, _Victor?!”_ his golden armlet shined against no apparent light source, like it was proving its presence and power. “Do you not see this piece I wear? Do you not know what it signifies?!” Yuuri was heaving, his face flushed with exasperation. “When you wrapped your hand around my arm, didn’t you feel it? When you bathed me, didn’t you touch it?” he went on, wanting his owner to know, wanting him to understand. “What do you expect me to do when it’s there on my body and it dictates all my actions?!”

Yuuri glared at the man sitting in front of him like he was an enemy, his ribcage quaking with the force of his yells, yet the Tsar’s reaction was only a firm headshake.

“My hands are tied.” Victor presented his wrists in a resigned gesture, tone still confrontational and chiding. “I could have freed you a long time ago. In fact, I could free you right now.”

The world around Yuuri stopped moving. The hands of the clock halted their ticking, the winds outside the windows paused, and the shadows from the candles stilled. Only Yuuri’s body moved from the impact of that statement, quivering from head to toe.

Victor did not take notice of that, however, and he went on to shatter Yuuri to bits. “But by that, I’ll lose ownership over you.” The Tsar said matter-of-factly, like it was obvious he will never free him, would never even _think_ of freeing him. “Do you know what that means?”

Yuuri stared down at the Tsar, his early hatred resurfacing, his new portrait of Victor Nikiforov reshaping back to the exact same man he resented with so much passion. The man who just now used his unattainable dream to mock him, who spoke of his freedom so offhandedly, so coldly, as if Yuuri did not spend every waking moment wishing and dreaming for it. As if he did not spend countless nights praying for it and danced every dance with it on his mind.

He remembered Yurio, gentle and kind Yurio, who had once freed him believing he did had the authority to, so determinedly, so easily and without question.

What a lurid contrast it was.

“It means I’ll no longer be a member of your harem.” Yuuri wasn’t speaking to only Victor anymore, he was speaking to every owner he’d ever had. “That you’ll no longer be able to have me in your bed.” His words cut sharply, not only the veil of decency between them, but Yuuri’s dignity as well. “That you’ll no longer be able to use me whenever you wish, to satisfy your sick pleasures.”

 _Ah,_ Yuuri smiled despite himself, seeing his end nearing with no one else to blame this time but him. _I’ve gone and done it._

Yuuri kept his gaze steady throughout his admission, watching how Victor’s eyes widened more and more, and by the time he finished, they were as big as saucers.

Then when everything registered, they sharpened into seething slits.

“Yuuri.” Victor hissed as he stood. If Yuuri had charged toward him earlier like he was going to attack the emperor, then Victor looked like he was about to grab Yuuri and murder him. “How _dare_ you say that to me?!” he roared, “How could you even **_think_ ** that?!”

“Am I wrong?” Yuuri challenged, stupidly unafraid.

He should’ve been too terrified for his life to say anything back, really, but it didn’t matter now, because Yuuri had already given it away.

“Of course you are, you brainless, _foolish,_ ** _stupid_** man!” Victor cursed him so maliciously Yuuri had to close his eyes from the assault. He never knew that being cursed at by the Tsar would hurt so much, but it did. “You’ll no longer be under my custody! By the new Russian law of slavery, I’ll have no choice but to send you back to your home country, to hand you over to the Japanese authorities!” he grabbed Yuuri by the shoulders, leaning down to scream at his face. “If I free you, I’ll be sending you with my own hands to your _bloody execution!”_

Yuuri blinked his eyes open, and for a second time that night, the world stopped moving. Victor’s face was so close to his, his eyes so sharp and angry and hurt and _good god,_ what had Yuuri been doing?

Then too soon, time resumed with a kick, and suddenly everything coming out of Victor’s mouth sounded much, much worse.

“What kind of Tsar I’d be for breaking a law _I_ had enacted in the first place?!” he shouted at Yuuri, his fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “I can’t do that! So do you still want me to free you, Yuuri?! Do you still want your freedom?!”

Yuuri was close to tears. “N-No!”

“Then what do you want me to do about it?!”

Yuuri gritted his teeth, his earlier frustration coming back with vengeance. “What do you want _me_ to do about it?!”

They were fighting, Yuuri processed. They were at each other’s throats and they sounded like they completely loathed one another, didn’t they?

Yuuri stepped back and slipped out of Victor’s hold, feeling sick to his stomach, wanting nothing more than be away from the man and not be forced to look at him anymore.

So without thinking, and for the first time in front of the Tsar, Yuuri turned around, quickly walked to the door, and exited the quarters without permission.

Victor called his name, but Yuuri ignored it and slammed the door behind him as hard as he could.

He had never seen the guards so shocked and speechless, eyes following him like Yuuri had just grown wings.

 _What did just happen?_ He thought, shocked and terrified. _What did just happen?!_

 _‘Stuff of dreams,’_ Bella had said to describe what he and Victor had, and she couldn’t have been more wrong and delusional.

Because all they had between them was the stuff of nightmares.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  _Love. Love. Love._

A word so foreign, so strange, something that did not belong in Yuuri’s world, something that he had just related to fictional tales and passing stories, the same word which was now haunting him ferociously, not sparing him a second of peace.

He hadn’t even heard the word being uttered aloud to him in years, not when he was in Italy, France, or even in Spain, and he never expected he would, not in a way that remotely involved him, and certainly not in Russia.

But in a span of only two days, that very word turned his world on its axis, ruining and undoing so much hard-earned progress, bringing him back to square one.

What did he do to deserve this? Were his own existing troubles not enough? Did he not suffer already for all the sins he had committed? Will he continue to suffer until the moment they lower him to his grave?

“Uh, maybe we should do this at a later time...”

“No,” Yuuri shook his head and brought back his focus on where he had left off, “We won’t.”

“Yes, we will.” Phichit took the massive book sitting on Yuuri’s lap and closed it too forcefully. “We’re putting away this mind-numbingly boring textbook before I pull all my hair out.”

The young lord was not mistaken about the medical book, not at all, for they had spent days translating those endless pages and Yuuri could honestly say he had no idea what it was about.

Phichit’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And you’re going to explain to your doctor why you look like a bloody corpse.”

Yuuri smiled, but he knew well that it was only a blank arching of his mouth. “My doctor is not here, though.”

“Yuuri!” Phichit gasped comically. “You have just shattered my heart to pieces!”

Yuuri’s smile completely vanished, so suddenly and quickly that there was no way Phichit could miss it.

Phichit of course didn’t. “Yuuri, I’m not going to meddle with your private matters, but when was the last time you had slept?”

He rubbed his face tiredly. “A few days.”

“A few days!” the Lord exclaimed, “With the amount of work you force yourself into, you should sleep for eight hours _minimum._ Your body will collapse otherwise, you hear me? And I can _see_ that you are skipping meals again, so unless you want to end up on-”

Yuuri glowered. “Say, am I a cruel person?”

Phichit’s mouth was still hung open from the scolding that Yuuri interrupted, then it shifted into an incredulous frown. _“Huh?”_

Yuuri looked down at his lap, “Am I-”

“You’re one of the kindest people I know.” Phichit said confidently. “Who would even think that of you?”

Yuuri clutched his hands, nails digging moon shaped creases on his palms “Some.”

“Huh...” Phichit studied him intently, contemplating the vague answer. “Well, perhaps you did _something_ to warrant that.”

Yuuri sighed. It was a good point, indeed, but he was none the wiser. “Perhaps.”

“We can dwell on that while we eat some food.” Phichit patted his knee and urged him to stand, “I think they’re serving porridge today. Come on, we can eat together. At least I’ll know you’re not starving yourself.”

Yuuri held a hand in front of him, stopping him before the Lord got to his feet.

“Wait. Listen. Someone… someone asked me whether I loved them or not.” Yuuri blushed, unable to keep it a secret from his friend any longer. “And I told them I did.”

Phichit stared at him like he had grown an additional head, the words taking their time to sink in.

But he went on, unprompted. “So tell me, how could I be cruel for saying that? It’s been plaguing my mind and I can’t seem to-”

Yuuri stopped talking when he realized that Phichit had sprung out of his chair and was by the door of Cialdini’s quarters, hurriedly checking the hallway outside before closing it quickly, then locking it, then pulling it to make sure it was locked.

“Yuuri, _Yuuri.”_ Phichit seemed completely horrified. “For both our sakes, _please_ tell me that that person is Victor Nikiforov, precisely the third of his name.” He pleaded. “And if it isn’t… well, I shall sit down with you for many hours and list countless reasons for why you should give your life more value.”

The blush on Yuuri’s cheeks deepened. “Of course it’s him.” His lips thinned in annoyance. “Who else would it be?”

“Well, I don’t _know!_ You don’t have a shortage of admirers, that’s for sure!” Phichit retaliated, but not harshly. He rested against the door and exhaled in relief. “Oh, Lord… Oh dear, sweet, sweet Lord...”

Yuuri was beyond confused. “Are you alright?”

“I am now.” Phichit released a shaky breath. “Give me a warning next time, will you?”

Yuuri slumped in his seat. “You’re the one who made assumptions.”

“I worry, Yuuri. I do not envy the position you’re in, trust me.” Phichit said, “And, uh, to answer your question...” the Lord was eyeing a bookshelf at the other side of the room, frowning before he looked back at Yuuri. “Well, _do_ you love him?”

The question caught him completely off guard.

Because it was different then, it was different in every way imaginable. It struck him that he had the opportunity to answer however he wished, unlike when he was in front of Victor.

In front of Victor, Yuuri’s two options weren’t ‘yes’ or ‘no’, they were either to be obedient or to insult the Tsar and possibly get himself punished for it.

He did want the Tsar physically, that’s something he had settled a long time ago. He wanted him that way, and he wanted him badly.

Furthermore, Yuuri did feel helpless seeing how Victor was sad sometimes and almost always unhappy. He did seek Victor’s approval. He did thrive to impress him and make him proud. And yes, he did want the man all to himself and the idea of being replaced one day, while inevitable, seemed dreadful.

However, that did not mean that Yuuri loved him. He couldn’t love a man just for these things, and it would be unfair to claim he-

“No.” Yuuri finally answered the question, eyes wide as he finally grasped the whole situation. “No, I don’t.”

“Oh, Yuuri.” Phichit said gently. “You _are_ cruel...”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It was bizarre how a chapter of his life could end so easily and abruptly.

Yuuri expected horns so loud they were deafening. He expected screams of joy and screams of horror that could not be told apart. He expected the sun to rise in the middle of the night and the birds to migrate back in December. He expected god himself to descend from the skies and announce the long-awaited conclusion.

But none of that happened, instead, it came in the form of a public announcement, read by a very uninterested sentinel, told before lunch hour so by the time the food had been served, it was long forgotten.

Only Yuuri remembered. Only Yuuri spent sleepless nights after it reflecting on the news, so long and so hard that his eyeballs dried from exhaustion and lack of sleep.

Bianca of Rome had been exiled from the imperial palace, it had been said.

There was no mention of Yuuri, no mention of treachery, not even a mention of why she was sent away. There had only been a warning for all the other concubines to revise the laws and avoid similar punishments. The sentinel herself spent a few minutes repeating the rules which every member of the harem had to abide by, just in case anyone had not already memorized them by heart.

And Yuuri, for the longest time, couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Bianca of Rome had been exiled.

 _Not hanged._ Yuuri repeated to himself, just so he won’t forget. _Not executed. Not killed. She was_ **_exiled._ **

 

 

* * *

 

 

 If Yuuri thought mother birds were cruel, then he wasn’t prepared for what he had to encounter with a different species.

“Those sounds are painful, aren’t they?” the servant crouching next to him commented.

Yuuri’s was indeed in severe pain, both at the helpless cries and at the depressing sight. He turned toward the girl, their faces coming close as he whispered worriedly. “What… what do you think we should do?”

“She wants her mother.” The girl said uneasily, her voice muffled by the endless footsteps on the other side of the hallway, “And you said you looked for her everywhere...”

“I did.” Yuuri told her, feeling powerless. “Emil and I searched the entire floor.”

“We checked the balconies as well. There was no sight of her.” Emil said above them. Even the guard sounded troubled. “Can we at least take her somewhere warm?”

The servant shook her head, her blond curls bouncing on her shoulders. “If we touch her and cover her with our scent, her mother might never take her back.”

Both men groaned. “So we leave her to die in the cold?” Yuuri said unhelpfully.

“Her mother _may_ come back...” the servant did not sound very convinced herself. “She won’t leave her, will she?”

Yuuri sighed and shook his head. “I think she already had...”

 _“What_ are you bastards doing?!” a scolding voice thundered through the hallway, startling the three of them. Prince Yurio, looking thrice as big, halted on top of a kneeling Yuuri, his green eyes widening upon his discovery. “Is that… is that a _kitten?!”_

Otabek stared from above Yurio and Yuuri’s heads, examining their findings with lucid wonder. He wore the exact same expression as Yuuri when he found the abandoned kitten hours ago, and it seemed like he, too, had never seen a cat that small and vulnerable before.

“Why are you hurting her?!” the Prince accused, pushing through Yuuri and the servant. “I could hear her cries all the way from the ground floor!”

And then, to everyone’s horror, Yurio _grabbed_ the kitten and cradled her to his chest.

“Your Highness!”

“Yurio!”

“Don’t not!”

“What?!” Yurio snapped back at the three of them, panicking himself. Otabek just stared at the kitten, processing the sight. “What is it?!”

“She’s been separated from her litter.” Yuuri stood up, frustrated at the boy. “Her mother might reject the poor thing now you’ve rubbed your scent on her.”

The Prince’s eyes shined in recognition. “A litter?”

“Oh.” Otabek came to the same realization as the Prince. He shook his head, “The mother was attacked by a fox yesterday.”

Yurio nodded woefully, stroking the kitten’s head and somehow reducing the painful cries she was making. “We used to leave food for her every day.”

Otabek carefully, very carefully caressed the kitten’s neck with his index finger. “The gardener said the entire litter was gone as well. Probably eaten. It’s a miracle that this one made it here.”

Yuuri was horrified, Emil mournful, and the servant was stuck between choking back tears and being in absolute awe at the presence of the Tsesarevich, of all people.

“You.” Yurio addressed said servant with a tilt of his chin, “Take her to my handmaidens at the west wing. Tell them to see that she’s taken care of until I come back.”

“W-with pleasure, your Highness!” the servant received the kitten gently.  

Yuuri was going to offer to take the kitten himself if the whole situation hadn’t crumbled an exact second later.

“Oh Yuratchka, my little fairy...” a soft voice came from behind the group. Although the call came in a very amused and friendly tone, it still had them all freezing in place with utter horror. “We can’t have you wandering around like that when an entire party is waiting on you, now can we?”

From their positions, Yuuri was the only one was facing the opposite direction, so by the time he managed to turn around fully, the rest had already reacted: Yurio grunting, Otabek stiffening his shoulders, Emil taking an exaggerated bow, and the servant following with a loud, undignified shriek.

“...Yuuri?” and of course, of all the people present, the Tsar chose to acknowledge only him.

To make matters worse, Victor wasn’t alone, behind him, at the far end of the hallway where he had heard so many footsteps earlier, stood about a dozen and a half guards, knights, and handmaidens, some of them familiar but most of them alien, and _all_ their attention settling on him as well.

The attendance was large, even by the Tsar’s standards, and Yuuri could tell by the way he was dressed, in leather trousers, riding boots, and everything else covered with a massive fur coat, that Victor was on his way outside the palace, which explained why Yurio looked so big upon first glance; they had covered him from head to toe with protective clothes against the December cold.

All that inspection took less than a second, really, but the pause took about an entire minute, or two. Needless to say, the rest was just the two of them staring at each other, _blatantly,_ a thousand and one thoughts revolving through Yuuri’s head, and many expressions going through the Tsar’s face at the sight of him.

The audience was not overlooked by Yuuri, because he could feel every single eye of almost _twenty three_ people on him now.

Yet, none of the looks was more intense than Victor’s, whose gaze was unflinching and somehow private, since, for his part, Victor seemed to forget that there was anyone else present.

Yuuri couldn’t help but clench and unclench his hands, trying his absolute hardest to not cave in to the sudden overwhelming scrutiny and collective hush.

This was different, unnervingly so. It wasn’t one of his performances, where the attention was justified and shifted according to who stood on stage. This was different from the Taking, where Yuuri got used to the reactions accompanying the ritual. And it was even different from the time Victor spoke to him in front of the entire harem, because instead of jealousy, spite, and hatred, Yuuri was now sensing only bafflement and confusion from the spectators.

It’s as if they were collectively thinking, **_‘That’s_ ** _Yuuri of the Forbidden Kingdom?’_ in the most perplexed, disappointed way possible.

Yuuri felt the urge to shrink into himself, to run away, hide somewhere, and never emerge until everyone forgot about his existence.

He was about to do exactly that when he heard a loud grumble.

“Oh, _Jesus Christ.”_ Yurio did not break the silence as much as he demolished it to fragments, allowing the entire hallway to breathe again. “You’re repulsive, Victor.” The boy snarked, “And don’t call me that _ever_ again!”

And just like that, Victor seemed to break out of his reverie, the crowd registered what was happening and resilient whispering ensued, and finally, the poor servant girl next to him started to understand what was happening and gasped loudly, scanning Yuuri from head to toe, like he was a different creature now, like they hadn’t spent the entire morning together tending to a kitten.

Victor shook his head but did not seem to register Yurio speaking, as he completely ignored him and took two rushed steps toward Yuuri, stopping halfway in reluctance. “Darling, listen to me, I’m-”

“Leave the piggy _alone.”_ Yurio, the brilliant, helpful, and considerate boy, resumed his rescue. He walked past Victor and toward their attendance, forcing them to look away in shame and gather themselves. “You’ve embarrassed him enough.”

Victor looked abashed, but not for the reason Yurio wanted him to be. He _glowered_ at the boy’s back. “What did you just call my-”

“Your Majesty,” Otabek intervened gracefully, diverting the emperor’s attention with a bow of his head. “It’s his choice of endearment.”

_“Endearment?”_

The crowd was utterly confused about who to follow, since the most important man in the empire stood still, while the second most important man in the empire was moving forward and leaving them behind.

But it didn’t matter because, by the time Victor turned around again, Yuuri had already disappeared out of sight.

As he ran away from the mortification of being recognized by the Tsar in front of such a massive crowd, Yuuri couldn’t help but allow relief to wash over him, soaking every muscle and bone. It made his feet move unnecessarily quickly and his steps skip like a child, giving his guard a hard time in able to keep up with him.

But he was relieved. So relieved. So relieved.

Because Victor had called him ‘ _darling’_ again, something he did not do the last horrific time they saw each other. And Yuuri, despite his demons yelling otherwise, thought that the Tsar was about to apologize to him, or at least forgive him for everything he said and did. Yuuri saw no difference between the two.

A bright smile break across his face.

 _Everything will be alright._ Yuuri told himself. _Everything will be alright after he comes back and I see him._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 For the first time since he entered the imperial palace seven months ago, Yuuri dressed himself to go outside.

His wool coat, although tailored perfectly for his body, did not seem to provide much warmth. The air in the palace gardens, however, was not as cold as he had predicted.

Besides, with Mila’s arm wrapped around his elbow as they walked, the Princess covered from head to toe with a warm, navy blue fur ensemble, Yuuri actually felt comfortable.

“I cannot believe they left me behind.” The Princess was saying, fixing her ushanka with her free hand. “Why was Yurio allowed to go and not me? _I’m_ the one who had plans in town.”

“May I ask where they went?” Yuuri said gently, still curious as to where both the Tsar and Tsesarevich went earlier that day with such large attendance.

“To the outskirts of the city.” Mila pouted. “Checking on constructions for god knows what. I _wish_ I had Yura’s ability to pester people, I swear to you he could go on for days until everyone succumbs to him. _I,_ on the other hand, try to be sweet and agreeable, and look where it got me. I’m _still_ cooped up in this castle like a prisoner.”

Makkachin’s bark could be heard far ahead, as two guards tried to chase her back to where the rest of the party was.

“See? Even poor Makkachin is happy to see _sunlight_ for a change.” She huffed. “And they tell me it’s for safety reasons, and that my popularity might cause a ruckus- Oh the _audacity!_ My following cannot hold a candle to Victor’s, for goodness sake. And safety? My knight might not be Jean Jacques Leroy or Otabek Altin, but Seung-gil is still capable!”

“Ser Otabek is an exceptional knight, I take.” Yuuri observed, “If you’re comparing him to Lord Leroy.”

After all, and even though Yuuri heard conflicting opinions about the man, Isabella describing him as _‘proud at times’_ , and Michele dubbing him _‘the cockiest bastard to ever walk this land’,_ no one denied that Leroy was the most skilled knight in the empire, Victor’s very own sword and shield. Though, Yuuri was sure he only accompanied the Tsar outside the palace, as Yuuri rarely saw the man, and not once near Victor. Perhaps they didn’t get along? He wondered.

“Oh, yes, indeed.” Mila nodded, “The Altins might not be known for their wealth, but they are more or less a family of warriors. Otabek was groomed to be a fighter and was knighted by my mother when he was only fourteen, making him the youngest knight in the empire.”

“That’s very admirable,” Yuuri said, awed. He might’ve never seen Otabek without his sword, but to imagine the soft-spoken, calm, and collected boy as a fighter was surprisingly difficult.

“I’m glad you think so, Yuuri.” Mila sighed. “Not many do.”

“Why is that?” Yuuri frowned. “Ser Otabek is one of the most respectful people I know.”

“You see, the Altins were one of the first families that immigrated to Russia with a royal invitation.” The Princess explained. “Almost twenty five years ago, I believe. It was one of my uncle’s few original practices that Victor did not discontinue. The previous Tsar invited many families from various countries, families that were known to excel in specific fields, and arranged for them to live here, given that they aid the royal family.”

Yuuri tilted his head toward her. “I did read about that. His Majesty even extended invitations to other classes.”

Also, Yuuri did see it by the variety of people surrounding him, from Phichit, to Cialdini, to Minako, Sara, Michele, Emil, Leo, and most handmaidens who weren’t Russian. It was as if Victor gravitated toward foreigners.

“Correct. It surely makes for a colourful castle, Victor’s proudest achievements.” She told him, “However, the Altins, while still nobility in their own merit, lack the fortune, and that, accompanied with their superior skills and race, poses a threat to the rest of the class, hence why many people are not keen on recognizing their influence. Ask a local nobleman who the youngest knight in the empire is, and they’ll make a valiant effort to not mention Otabek’s name.”

It was interesting to hear all this from the Princess, because even if Yuuri had read about it in detail, Mila was focusing more on the reception it was all getting, something he could never figure out himself, secluded from outside society as he was.

“I’ve lived most of my life in a community of a single, pure race.” Yuuri shared, “The environment is very new to me, but I still find this behaviour bizarre.”  

“You don’t know half of it, Yuuri,” Mila replied, staring ahead solemnly. “The public’s opinion shifts faster than a pendulum, and the one thing they react violently to is people who are different.” Her arm wrapped more tightly around his elbow. “And not just when it comes to race or class. Even people like me and Yurio have been subjected to discrimination.”   

“Your Highness.” Yuuri’s steps slowed, bringing their walk to a sudden stop. “You are a princess of a pure royal blood, and Yurio is the _Tsesarevich.”_

She shook her head, smiling sadly as they continued walking. “We are still Feltsmans. The empire would rather have my mother rule after Victor, so long that a Nikiforov sits on the throne.”

Yuuri suddenly felt unpleasantness. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

Mila patted his arm affectionately, “I still have it better than Yurio; I did manage to gain popularity over time. I don’t remember much, but the year Victor announced him as a Tsesarevich, a title that Victor deemed fixed even if he had future children, the empire collectively loathed his very existence.”

“Why not your mother as the heir?” Yuuri asked, curious and had never found an answer in any of his books. “Why not prince Georgi or you? Why the youngest child?”

“It was a family decision.” Mila informed, her eyes grim. “My uncle, the previous Tsar, he… he was not a very pleasant man. He left the empire in ruins and traumatized everyone who knew him. And with the way we were raised, you could say that we were horrified of ever claiming his title and having such frightening power.” She gulped. “Even my other uncle, Victor’s father… he...”

“He disappeared shortly after Tsar Victor was born.” Yuuri recited when Mila did not seem willing to finish, “Presumably kidnapped and assassinated.”

Mila’s grip, at that point, was almost painful. She turned toward the attendance following them and waved a hand sharply. It only took seconds for them to walk far enough to be out of earshot, no one moving to follow them.

“He fled, Yuuri.” Mila said. “He was next in line and could not bear the weight, and he was accused of treason for it. He _was_ kidnapped and assassinated, but it was by my _uncle.”_ Her eyes turned glassy, “And do you know what the public did when they found out their Tsesarevich had been killed? They _celebrated.”_

A chill went through Yuuri, not fully comprehending why Mila was making him the bearer of such horrid information.

“Yurio has endured a lot for a boy his age. You do not see it because we are in a circle of our supporters, but the public’s opinion was never favourable toward him, and the worst part is that he’s aware of it, aware that one day he might end up like Victor’s father. It had made him bitter, defensive, and always on edge.” She wiped her tears, and Yuuri felt dread creeping in into every corner of his body when she went on. “Because what are fancy titles to the people’s hatred? No one is safe. Not me, not Yurio, not even Victor.”

Before Yuuri could react to such a grim statement, a loud bark and sounds of exclamation snapped his attention to the inside of the gardens.

“What is it?” Mila inquired, startled herself.

“She’s getting too close to the gates, your Highness.” A royal guard heaved heavily, as he was the one chasing Makkachin earlier. “And every time I try to bring her back, she runs away.”

“No one can catch her, can they?” Mila giggled, her smile returning. “How precious.”

“Shall I go and compete?” Yuuri smiled, knowing that Mila would at least cheer up if he did. “I think it’s about time we establish who’s the fastest between us.”

Emil’s sensitive ears picked up on the exchange, and his reaction time was impressive. “Yuuri, no-”

Before his guard could stop him, Yuuri took off like a cheetah toward the direction where Makkachin stood, the dog unmoving and wagging her tail far ahead, as if challenging anyone to reach her.

Amused, Yuuri believed he was very capable of taking her on, and Emil could vouch for that, as the guard always scolded him for running faster than anyone else he had ever seen.

The dog sprinted out of his reach the moment he came close, but Yuuri hadn’t been running in full speed, causing Makkachin to look back at him a few times, her tongue dangling like she was mocking him for his insolence. Yuuri laughed _joyfully_ at the adorable sight.

The poor dog did not realize she was massively underestimating the best dancer in the palace until it was too late, Yuuri caught up with her in less than a second and lunged at her. His body landed on its side on the cold grass and he made a grab for Makkachin’s torso, successfully managing to put a stop to her antics.

Safely, he rolled on his back and took her with him, ending up in the same old, same old position they always found themselves in. He did not realize that he had been laughing the entire time.

Makkachin licked his face enthusiastically. Not a sore loser, then, Yuuri decided as he grabbed the loose leash dangling from her neck. He settled himself in a kneeling position in front of her, patting her just as lovingly.

He loved that dog, Yuuri thought, he genuinely did. In a span of a minute, she managed to erase all the worries that came from the conversation he had with Mila.

The dangerous side of Russia, his blindness to the public opinion, the difficulties that poor Yurio had to face, and the fact that even Victor might not be completely immune to his people’s hostility, all of it was forgotten when such an innocent creature only wanted to have a good run with him.

 _“Yuuri!”_ Emil cried, voice uncharacteristically frantic.

Yuuri looked up just in time to see an object flying towards him. For a split second, he thanked every deity he knew for the adrenaline left from chasing Makkachin, because his reflex was quick enough to dodge the piece of rock shooting directly at his head.

Yuuri was stunned, his vision blurring and his entire body shaking in alarm. It was the sight of the rock, that now rested behind him, that made everything so hazy.

Because it was big and heavy enough to crush his skull to pieces.

“Yuuri, _behind me!”_ Emil had reached him before Yuuri realized, grabbing his elbow and pulling him to his feet faster than he could process what had just happened.

Makkachin was growling, sensing aggression nearby, but she still followed when Yuuri pulled at her leash. He allowed Emil to push him forward as they moved back to the side of the garden.

He heard three _clacks_ behind him, and Yuuri knew that it was the sound of three more rocks being thrown and making contact with Emil’s armour.

“What happened?” Mila asked as soon as they made it past three other guards, who were standing in a semi-circle in front of their princess like an assembled shield. “Yuuri, are you alright?!”

Yuuri’s heart was pounding so frantically he was having a hard time breathing, Emil however, was collected and focused, in fact, he was more focused than Yuuri had ever seen him. He had been spending so much time with the man that Yuuri had forgotten that Emil was a royal guard trained to handle these very situations.

“The commoners outside the palace gates, your Highness.” Emil answered dutifully, “They started throwing rocks the moment they spotted him, and while we are a fair distance away, I urge you all to return inside the palace immediately.”

Mila’s eyebrows furrowed in worry and confusion. Clutching her hands together, she looked back and forth between Yuuri and Emil instead of issuing a command, “Yuuri?”

“I have told him _countless_ times not to be separated from me,” Emil sighed, turning to him. “Please do not do that again, if anything happened to you on my watch-”

At that, Yuuri finally came back to his senses, the threat to his life losing its importance the moment he realized what would follow.

The first thing he did after regaining mobility was handing the leash to one of the handmaidens and pulling Mila to the side by her arm.

“Your Highness,” Yuuri said, his voice rough. “Listen to me, do _not_ tell His Majesty.”

 _“What?”_ Mila’s entire body recoiled. She looked at him like Yuuri had lost his mind. “Nonsense, I’m going to tell him as soon as he comes back, he’d be-”

Yuuri didn't have the patience for this, not for her, not for Emil, and _not_ for the ruckus that this will surely cause.

 _“Your Highness,”_ He snapped. “What will Victor do? Do you want a person to die just because they tossed a harmless rock? _Another_ person who didn’t harm me?! _Think!”_

Mila’s lips quivered like she had never been yelled at in her life. She seemed to slowly recall what happened to the concubine she reported months ago, the concubine who was hanged the very next day. “I’m… I’m sorry. That girl... I swear- I never-”

Yuuri groaned, running a hand through his hair in frustration, barely registering that not only did he say the Tsar’s first name casually, but he had just yelled at Russia’s only princess.

 _She is just a child._ He scolded himself. _Of course she didn’t know._

“No, I am.” He bowed. “Please forgive me for raising my voice, it was due to shock. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re forgiven.” She pursed her lips, took a long breath, and turned back to her attendance, sounding like an entirely different person once she addressed all the four guards and three handmaidens, “Everyone, inside, _now.”_

No one needed to be told twice, as the entire party started moving back to the palace entrance at the sound of her authoritative, but calm voice, the voice of a royal which she seemed to have mastered much better than Yurio had.

“Listen carefully, all of you,” Mila instructed as they moved, “We have to report to his Majesty that there are protestors at the gates and that they’re turning violent.” She glanced fleetingly at Yuuri before she went on,  “However, none of you is to mention who their target was. Neither I nor Monsieur Yuuri had been in the gardens today, do you understand?”

A predictable echo of _‘yes, your Highness’_ followed, and that concluded Yuuri’s first ever visit to the castle gardens.

Yuuri, in his haste, recognised that his understanding of Cyrillic was all but perfect, to a point where he’s even able to read even the sloppiest and most incomprehensible handwriting.

Because on that rock aimed at his head, written with white chalk, was a word he hadn’t heard in a while and almost forgot about.

_‘Whore’_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It was not every day that Yuuri was unoccupied.

He read one more page, did not absorb a single word, and put back the book on the grand library’s shelf. With no documents to look through and translate, and no chores that late in the day, Yuuri found nothing else to do but go back to the harem without any of his nightly reading done.

It was not the incident with Mila earlier that day that occupied his mind, not really. After all, Yuuri was no stranger to such attacks, be it from fellow concubines or commoners, it made no difference to him.

It _was_ new, but not unfamiliar in a way that would trouble him so. Being called a _‘whore’_ was still deeply offensive, but at that point, Yuuri was beginning to wish that people tried to be more creative with their insults.

Besides, he was repeatedly assured by Mila that none of the witnesses would inform on what happened, and Emil had repeatedly proved himself to be trustworthy when it comes to these matters.

In short, Yuuri found that, for the first time, he was not worried about anyone being punished because of him. And to his utter astonishment, his mind was for once clear.

There was no worry and apprehension to fuel of his anxiety, to keep his mind hyper-aware, which resulted in him returning to his room after supper with absolutely nothing to do.

Yuuri would’ve forced himself to pick up another book and read more, but he was heavily discouraged. Truth be told, since the unpleasant fight he had with Victor three days ago, Yuuri had realized that, although he spent most of his time trying to gather information, he still knew _nothing._

The Russian law of Slavery, for one, was a shock to him.

Yuuri always had an obsession with literature, not out of fondness, but out of habit and necessity. He _had_ to know things, he _had_ to be aware. It was drilled into him since he was a child, the clergy repeatedly making him fear ever being in the dark, ever forgetting the names of politicians and monarchs, not knowing historical, geographic, or scientific facts, or artistic works, or great authors and poets. _‘A lord of such high status should never look like an idiot.’_ The clergy often exclaimed.

He didn’t know that this obsession had stayed with him until Victor, who always praised him for his intelligence, pointed out his ignorance on something.

Granted, Victor _did_ call him brainless, foolish, and stupid. But it was out of rage of being insulted. The clergy, however, had his stick, and the clergy never failed to strike him whenever Yuuri did not know a certain fact, for no reason other than not knowing.

But Yuuri had done it on purpose; he could read about everything and anything, but whenever a document mentioned slavery, he would pointedly put it aside. A part of him expected to be punished for it every time.

And that same part realized that the habit was broken, because the punishment never came.

Thus Yuuri decided to only read something when he _wanted_ to. And it felt so empowering to consider going back to the library but then refusing to because he _didn’t feel_ like reading anything tonight.

Who knew that it’d take four years for Yuuri to be free from shackles he didn’t even know existed?

Furthermore, now that Yuuri was left alone for once, what _was_ he supposed to occupy his time with?

 

 

* * *

 

 

 The first time Yuuri asked, his guard was taken aback.

“Did he call for me?”

“His Majesty?” Emil said, confused. Maybe because the last time Yuuri was in the man’s quarters, their malicious shouting had reached every ear. Or maybe because it wasn’t the night of the Taking. Maybe both. “No, he didn’t.” He furrowed his blond eyebrows. “Is he going to?”

 _Of course he’s going to._ “I think so.”

Emil brows drew together even more. “You think so?”

Without elaborating, Yuuri left the guard at his post outside the harem entrance and retreated back to his room.

The second time Yuuri asked, merely half an hour later, Emil’s curiosity was piqued.

“Did you do something, Yuuri?” the guard said softly, but they both knew that he, just like Michele, was ever suspicious of him, especially when it came to getting himself in trouble.

“No.” Yuuri said, restless, “I swear I didn’t.”

Emil did not seem convinced. “I’ll let you know when he does.”

The third time he asked, Emil started to worry.

“Should I be prepared for anything?” the guard inquired, “If you’re still thinking about the protestors, I assure you that no one would tell.”

“I’m not worried about that.” Yuuri truly wasn’t. “But are you sure no one came?”

“The Tsar has not returned yet,” Emil informed him. “But I assure you I’ll fetch you the second he calls.”

Emil clearly thought that Yuuri had been afraid, but to be fair, every single time he was called liked that, it was due to Yuuri doing something horribly wrong, so he didn’t blame his guard for not noticing.

Yet, it wasn’t that hard to see the shift in him.

Yuuri might not able to see how he was acting from an outside perspective, but even he himself felt how out of character he was being. If he had been scared, or restless, or afraid because he had done something to anger Victor and awaiting the consequences, Yuuri would’ve hidden in his room and wouldn’t have emerged unless forced to.

No, that night, Yuuri felt the opposite of that.

He couldn’t stay put and had to ask, because he didn’t know what else to do with himself; the minutes were turning into hours, and not once did Yuuri hate Victor’s busy life like he did then.

He had no idea what was happening to him, but Yuuri knew that for the first time, seeing Victor was all he wanted.

The fourth time he asked Emil, however, Yuuri was met with a very different response.

“No, he did not call you.” Emil wasn’t even looking at him, his eyes roaming around the harem entrance. “Yuuri, for the last time, I _will_ notify you if his Majesty does. It’s getting late, please stay inside and don’t come out unless I tell you to.”

Yuuri did not fail to notice the abrupt change in his demeanour, and certainly not how _‘when’_ had suddenly turned into _‘if’._

 _Something happened._ Yuuri instantly knew.

He took a second to take in his surroundings. Yuuri couldn’t see anything, but he could swear that the air around him was slowly shifting, each hair on his body standing alert in response.

“Yuuri,” Emil said, no more gently. “Go inside.”

_Something definitely happened._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri was at the gallery where everything had started, when everything was falling apart.

All Emil wanted was to keep him inside the harem, and all Yuuri wanted was to get out of there and _see_ for himself, so safe to say, it wasn’t that hard to use one of the many other exits of the harem and slip away from the guard unnoticed.

Yuuri didn’t see anything, however.

By the time he reached the gallery, the entrance of the palace had been emptied and the earlier commission had long ceased, all evidence of it erased save for the red stains where the servants were still mopping the floor.

He had jogged from one hallway to the other, trying to understand why the imperial palace of Russia, one of the busiest places in the whole empire, had become so vacant and empty.

The buzz around the castle that usually quieted down by twelve o’clock had fallen into uncharacteristic silence by nine, doors squeaked as they shut and locked, exhausted chatter turned into feverish whispers, and the discernible tiredness vanished, apprehension taking its place.

Yuuri had been out of breath when he reached the gallery, his questions unanswered, his worries intensifying, and his ears sensitive to _any_ sound they picked up on, anything, anything to help him understand.

And that’s when he had overheard the whispers.

Yuuri wished he had listened to Emil and never stepped a foot outside the harem, because he had not been ready to hear any of it.

_“The blood, I tell you, I almost fainted at the sight of it!”_

_“And his hair! His beautiful silver hair had been painted scarlet!”_

_“Oh dear, the sight of him being carried… so still… so lifeless…”_

_“His Highness was also there, and good god, the little boy’s screams... It was heart wrenching!”_

_“What will become of this empire? What will become of_ **_us?!”_ **

And this is where it had all left him, sitting in the centre of a raging storm, soaking every word, the voices almost eating him whole.

And Yuuri was letting them.

Because that marked his end.

Because Victor’s party had been attacked by protestors.

Because Victor had been _stabbed._

He had been sitting on the floor behind a pillar for possibly hours, hugging his knees like a child who had lost his way.

While Yuuri was busy doing nothing, forgetting about the commoners at the gates, forgetting about the safety protocols, forgetting the fact that it was dangerous to go outside the castle, Victor was being ambushed, Victor was being stabbed, and Victor was being carried back _still_ and _lifeless._

_Victor was stabbed._

_Victor was stabbed-_

_Victor was-_

Yuuri was not a religious person. He was born a Buddhist, but everything about that belief was laced with the same hatred he had for the clergy who taught him everything about it. After that, whenever Yuuri arrived in a new country, one of the first things they did was convert him to whatever religion his owner identified with.

It was hard to believe in a god when Yuuri had seen the world and every religion claimed to be the most righteous, that no, _their_ god was the true one.

But Yuuri prayed, he prayed in every way he knew how to. He prayed to the Buddha, he prayed to Allah, to Yahweh, and the Holy Trinity, and nature, and the spirits, and the animals.

He did not feel that it was enough, furthermore, he didn’t even _know_ what he was praying for. Was he praying that Victor was alive? Or was he praying for him to come _back_ to life? Was he praying to not lose the one thing keeping him together? To not go back to be traded all the around the world? To not become a prostitute sold from one merchant to another?

He didn’t know what else to do but pray to his _own_ god, the one he always prayed to every single lonely night in Japan. For that deity, and for that deity only, his prayer became clear.

He’d give everything to not have the last conversation he had with Victor be the last ever.

“Yuuri!” and there she was, descending upon him, her hand plunging him back into the solid ground. _“Yuuri!”_

He looked up from the shrouding darkness and blinked to see an array of light.

“Yuuri, thank goodness,” Minako sighed, her shoulders slumping. Both her hands were on his arms, and Yuuri wondered how long she had been shaking him. She stood on wobbly feet, and Yuuri saw that she did not look any less shaken than him, but at least she was more in control of her emotions. Minako stared ahead of her helplessly, then grabbed him by the elbow, pulling him to his feet with strong hands. “I’ll take you with me. _Come._ We need to hurry.”

He was in no state to follow her quick and frantic steps by his own, so he let her guide him with a tight grip on his hand, more or less pulling him after her.

Yuuri swallowed a sob. “Is he- Is he-”

“I don’t know.” She said through pursed lips, sounding as panicked as he. “But whatever it is, they’re making it sound much, much worse. Don’t believe everything you hear.”

Yuuri couldn’t help but quip. _“You_ seem to.”

“The blood, I saw.” She clenched her teeth. It might've been the first time ever that he had noticed her limp. “But the source of it, I did not.”

Yuuri didn’t know how they walked most of the castle so shaken and fidgety, he did not know how they managed to pass so many frightened people without hearing a word they said, and he did not know how many stairs they ascended and tiles they crossed to reach the north wing.

He only realized they had reached their destination, to the hallway guarded by Victor’s guards, when Minako more or less shouted, “Is it true?!”

“Miss Minako,” one of the guards greeted, immediately comforting her in a way he seemed to be repeating a thousand times that day. “It was one of the knights. His Majesty is completely unharmed.”

Minako let go of Yuuri’s hand, stood against a wall, and breathed a gallon of air. She hissed _‘Yokatta’_ so many times Yuuri couldn’t count them.

Yuuri, still in a shell-shocked state, had lost the ability to comprehend his surroundings and did nothing but stare vacantly.

Much steadier and alive, Minako exchanged a nod with the guards and entered the hallway, walking halfway to the quarters before recalling that Yuuri was still there. “This man is with me, he’s-”

“Please enter, sir.” The guard said, and he must have been imagining it, but the man spoke to him even urgently than he did Minako.

Minako shook her head, as if scolding herself for forgetting who Yuuri was, but she did not waste a single second and made her way to Victor’s bedroom as quickly as possible.

When Yuuri reached the door of the room, the room he had spent countless hours in, he froze, not recognizing it anymore.

There were crying handmaidens. There were scattered guards. There were servants running around the room. There were nursemaids who stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do when not needed.

Isabella and Jean Jacques Leroy were standing in the far left corner, whispering to each other and not noticing the evil, perhaps anthropomorphic painting right next to their feet.

There was a handsome, blue eyed young man leaning against the fireplace, dressed in one of the androgynous and colourful ensembles that Tsarevich Georgi was known for.

Said Tsarevich was watching worriedly as another man walked back and forth in front of him, older, heavier, gruffer and _angrier_ than everyone in the room combined.

And in the centre of the chaos was Victor, sitting on the edge of the bed between Lady Lilia and Mila, the former rubbing his back soothingly, and the latter hugging his side as if to make sure he’s still there.

Like an electric sock, Yuuri was overcome with the fact that he had never wanted anything more than to be in her place.

“Your Majesty.” Minako had gone inside, completely forgetting about Yuuri once she saw that the Tsar was in good health. She bowed stiffly to her right as she walked forward. “Your Graces. Your Highnesses.”

“He’s well.” Lilia announced calmly. Her face was expressionless, as always, but she looked worried and relieved in her own way. “My boy is well.”

“Had I not pulled his Excellency from the crowd in time, we would have been faced with a far bigger calamity.” A bright, deep voice commented. Isabella gave Leroy a meaningful look, but the knight went on. “And of course, I would have disarmed the attacker long before he attempted such shameless and abhorrent act, but alas, I have only two hands-”

“Shut your mouth for a second!” a powerful voice zapped through the room, silencing every single person in it. “Even Minako is here and Yuratchka’s still nowhere in sight!” with such authority, given the presence of so many royals around him, Yuuri did not doubt that the speaker was none other than Grand Duke Yakov himself, “Why is he not with his cousin at this dire time? When will this boy learn common courtesy?! _For goodness sake!”_

“You know where he is, father.” Prince Georgi commented dryly, no doubt used to Lord Yakov’s outbursts.

“Where he _should_ be.” Mila defended. “Vitya is not the only one who currently needs support.”

“You gave us a fright, your Majesty.” Minako said softly, cutting that argument short. “I almost fainted on our way here.”

“Us?” confusion crossed blue eyes, which a second ago were far away and vacant, giving them a shine and making them wander around the room, barely noticing that there were so many people in it. Years seemed to pass until they finally found Yuuri, who was loitering behind the door like a skittish cat. “Oh…” a smile made its way to Victor’s tired face. “You’re here as well?”

Every single eye in the room turned toward him.

The nebulous and surging attention did not matter to him, in fact, Yuuri did not even register it, because what in front of him stole his entire focus and refused to give it back.

He saw Victor’s hair, a few shades darker, sopped by a bath he must’ve taken shortly before, not a single tuft painted with anything other than its beautiful silver, certainly not scarlet in any way. His skin looked pale, but not with pallor, perhaps a bit from shock and exhaustion. There was not a single bruise, a single scratch or discoloration on him of any kind.

His chest was swelling and shrinking, the lapel of the white shirt he had opted for moving along accordingly. His long, silvery lashes flittered along his lids, eyes blinking in proper intervals, not too far about, but not close either.

 _He’s not gone._ The scene finally sank in. _He’s… he’s-_

“Now, who in the _hell’s name_ is that?!” the locus expanded, and suddenly more than two dozens of people were gawking his way, and Lord Yakov was yelling, making Yuuri jump in fear and break out of his trance. “And at a time like this?!” the Grand Duke waved a dismissive hand, the veins on his forehead bulging. “Leroy, would you please get rid of this-”

“Yakov.” Lady Lilia chided, instantly silencing him.

He wanted to run, but not toward the exit, he wanted to run as fast as he could and wrap Victor in an embrace, just like the man did so many weeks ago when he heard Yuuri was hurt.

But in the presence of all these people, it was _impossible_ in every way imaginable. He was physically incapable of pushing himself into that room.

“I’m… I’m sorry for imposing at such an inconvenient time.” Yuuri almost broke into tears at how badly he was berated, at how badly he didn’t _want_ to be here. He managed to lock eyes with Victor and quickly say, “I- I- I’m   _relieved_ that your Majesty is unharmed.”

Victor was trying to shift out of his cousin and aunt’s secure hold, but Yuuri did not linger long enough to see anything beyond that.

For the second time that week, Victor called his name and Yuuri ran away as fast as he could, leaving a cacophony of noise, whispers, protests, and giggles erupting behind him.

He didn’t _want_ to go, he didn’t, he _didn’t;_ the idea of leaving the Tsar was fraying Yuuri’s being little by little as he pulled himself along the hallway, the trip never, ever feeling that long, that incessant, that _unbearable._

But he knew, and Minako knew, and everyone there knew, that Yuuri did not belong in that room, not anymore, not then, at least, not when it was no longer Yuuri and Victor’s secluded, intimate space. He only belonged there when it didn’t _matter._

And perhaps it was for the best, because he didn’t know what could be worse. Yuuri could try to attune to that new setting, restricted from even something as simple and granted as _sitting_ close to the Tsar, instead to ebb away and stand awkwardly, outlandishly in some corner too, _too_ far from him. Or he could discard all decency, all respect to the other royals, and jump into Victor’s arms right then and there, just like those blue eyes had urged him to before he ran away from that need, the need that wasn’t entirely his own. He didn’t know.

“Otabek.” Was the first thing Yuuri uttered when he reached the guards, asking, with a chilling whisper, before he even realized _why_ he was asking in the first place. His mind was in such distortion that even simple concepts seemed to take much effort to understand. _Victor’s alive and unharmed,_ one of the voices took pity on him and elaborated. _Which means-_ “Where’s ser Otabek?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 If not for the fact that he had practically memorized that route, Yuuri would’ve lost his way more than once due to his growing dread.

He had made it there, however, he had managed to reach Cialdini’s quarters in less than five minutes, navigating through the castle with a clear intent rather than his earlier desultory wandering.

Yuuri spotted a mass of yellow hair and sidled his way to Yurio. The menacing _crimson_ unfortunately existed, polluting the tips of his front strands, but they did not look as terrible as people had suggested. There had been at least some vitality in the sight.

Despite Yuuri’s quiet gait, Yurio’s entire body whirled around at the first echoes of his footsteps.

He did not know what to expect to find, but Yuuri was shocked and confused to see that, aside from a couple of guards near the door of the infirmary, the boy was completely _alone._ His eyes sought Yuuri’s, and in unexpected candour, the Prince’s expression crumbled at the first sight of someone he knew.

Even if he hadn’t seen it, he still recognized the yearning instantly, the wish for guidance, the coveting for the support he had been denied from. The unmistakable need for a pillar.

Once he came face to face with the boy, Yuuri did not dare retread and pulled Yurio into an embrace as fast as he physically could.

Noxious and masked emotions seemed to evaporate into the air as Yurio broke into noisy sobs, clutching at his shirt and staining it with tears. Yuuri did not discourage it in any way, for he only pushed the boy’s head further into his chest.

“They were going to stab _me!”_ Yurio was incapable of conveying what he meant by that, and Yuuri didn’t blame him, because none of it was easy to understand. Was he still unable to process that he and Victor were targets of an assassination attempt? Was he thankful that it had been abated? Was he searingly mad that it did? “Not him! _Me!”_

He had no idea how to handle this, but the role had been passed on, and he could no longer be the Yuuri anymore, he needed to be the Minako in this situation. “You’re both still here.”

“Are we?!” the protest confirmed that he had not been talking about Victor. “He… he lost _so much_ blood, oh god, oh _fucking_ hell- he’s going to- he will be-”

 _What am I to do?_ Yuuri looked around, pathetically helpless. _What am I to say?_

“Shhh.” He found himself stroking the Prince’s hair, and it seemed to do _something_ at least, as Yurio’s panicky whispers turned into more comprehensible sentences.  

“What- what will I do if-" Yurio buried his face into Yuuri’s top once again. “He’s my best companion. We… we spend _every_ minute together. With him, I’m no longer so, fucking, _alone._ If something happened to him… For god’s sake, why him? Why not that prick Jean-”

“Don’t say these things.” Yuuri sighed, scared himself of what might happen to the knight. “I’m sure he’ll-”

On cue, they heard the private infirmary door creak open. Yurio scrambled out Yuuri’s embrace to see who had emerged, his green eyes wide, red, and pleading.

Cialdini pulled down his cotton mask, and the smile on his face was enough for both of them to exhale in relief, Yurio’s coming out sounding like a high pitched snivel.

Cialdini chuckled as he approached them, “There, there, your Highness.” He patted the Prince’s head affectionately, and Yurio let him. “It was a very clean and _very_ sharp blade, which in my book is appreciated. The knife went in and out of his shoulder without causing too much damage.” He told them, holding the top of Yurio’s head and smiling reassuringly toward Yuuri. “He’ll live for a few more decades, and he’ll be left with a scar he will surely gloat about.”

“He won’t.” Yurio snorted, finally regaining himself and shrugging away from Cialdini’s hand. “Otabek would never gloat.”

And that, well that concluded a nightmare Yuuri never wanted to experience again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 When the ensemble of people in the north wing slowly migrated to Cialdini’s quarters, surrounding Yurio’s with delayed, but welcomed support, Yuuri was quick to flee.

And in the confinement of his room, he was quick to sink into the floor and let everything pummel onto him, indulging in a well-timed and much-needed rest.

It wasn’t a rest as much as it was a good ten to twenty minutes of crying and babbling nonsense into the air, but he still felt that his whole body broke when he did.

His head drummed with ache, his limbs felt numb, and his eyes stung, but none hurt more than his heart, which had been taking a perpetual beating for the past hour. And it wasn’t because of woe, or threat, pressure or all the helplessness he had experienced, no, it was because of the _relief._

When Victor had called _‘darling’_ earlier that day, Yuuri had thought that no relief could bypass that, but he had been mistaken, oh so mistaken. The relief he felt seeing Victor simply _breathe_ and blink was ineffable, and delaying his reaction until he made sure Otabek was safe and sound only made it worse.

This kind of relief was too intense, too painful to take in, it could not have been received with ardour, but only with a sense of something being forcibly ripped out of him.

The woe, the threat, pressure and all the helplessness mentioned were fused into him, and they have been taken off with something completely _opposite_ of the clean and sharp blade Cialdini was thankful for. No, his were taken out with a blunt and contaminated claw.

When it reached a point when Yuuri thought he had been _too_ acquainted with his carpet, he reached out for the nearest object he saw, anything to fill that hole.

The piece of clothing carelessly discarded was his coat, flung closely to where the rest of his unloved clothes where. Sliding it towards him, Yuuri lessened it into precise, plain impulsive folds, then reached for something else and did the same, and before he knew it, Yuuri was doing something long overdue.

So with tears that were barely drying, he found himself arranging mountains of unorganized clothes in the middle of the night to mountains of organized clothes, since he had no wardrobes or chests to keep them confined. Sara repeatedly told him to request more furniture, Yuuri recalled, but he could never find it in himself to do so.

At some point, he started humming a familiar melody in between sniffles, finding the mere act of folding garments somehow soothing. It left him alone with a dissonance of chaotic thoughts, until some of them seemed to become comprehensible.

At some point, Yuuri wondered _why_ he had so many garments to begin with.

And then he remembered that they were gifts, all of them, since Yuuri had never spent single a coin on clothes.

Yuuri saw that he was unconsciously sorting everything into three piles, first were the clothes given to him by Sara, who always brought him things she thought he needed, sleepings attires, working clothes, scarves, caps, and boots. There was another pile sent to him by Victor’s three handmaidens, outfits that chosen concubines usually wore, outfits so sultry and degrading that Yuuri had a sudden urge to burn them in a bonfire.

And for the third pile, Yuuri put everything he wasn’t sure of there, as they were always delivered by servants and handmaidens he couldn’t recognize in the last month or so. To his surprise, there were suits, dresses, and pieces that were covered with either gold, silver, or other sorts of expensive embroidery. There were pieces of silk, of fur, of other material that Yuuri’s mind instantly registered as things only _nobles_ wore.

Yuuri was staring at that pile in astonishment, knowing that they together must make a _fortune._ There was no mistaking it. Victor had sent him those, long before Yuuri asked him to stop, long before they had that unnerving fight.

It didn’t end there. Because there was a fourth pile, already sorted neatly in the corner of the room, delivered specifically when Yuuri wasn’t present. Yuuri shuffled his way towards it, noticing it for the first time and having no idea what it contained, since each piece had been wrapped, unlike the other ones.

As he tore through each package, his humming intensified, quickened, and loudened, as if Yuuri was losing his wit with every piece he unveiled.

Maybe he _was_ losing his wit, because that delicate, tender, and romantic melody Victor played, which Yuuri fell in love with the first time he heard it, was starting to sound like the other piece of music he hated with all his heart.

Like they were the same exact tune but with different tempos.

The revelation did not matter, because in his hands, in that pile, were extravagant _dancing_ costumes, with colours so vibrant he could’ve never imagined them on fabric. He found feathers, he found glitter, crystals, and mesh, he found all sorts of complementary accessories, from masks to wigs to gloves to props of all kinds.

Yuuri was close to breaking down into another fit of tears.

Victor had once called him the most beautiful dancer in the world, and that, that was exactly what Yuuri imagined the most beautiful dancer in the world would have in their wardrobe.

He was becoming dizzy with an amalgam of guilt and delight, barely processing anything anymore when he picked up the last package. This one was different, as it had a card attached to it.

With shaky hands, Yuuri flipped it open and read through delicate and pretty handwriting.

_‘Who am I to be in the way of greatness? - V’_

Yuuri didn’t have time to be furious at Victor for still sending him gifts, even after he told him not to, because inside was one of the most beautiful outfits he had ever laid eyes on.

In truth, Yuuri had seen it before, he definitely had. It revealed itself somewhere in his tortured mind, exploding from the depth of deprived imagination during the first time he danced in front of Victor. The suit, the sparkling, perfect suit he saw himself wearing, happy and strong and so, so _free._

Though, the suit wasn’t blue. It was a gradient of white, silver, pink, and violet. Yet, Yuuri found that for the first time, blue wasn’t the only colour he wanted to wear proudly.

And Yuuri, the fool, had once entertained the idea of Victor never letting him dance.

He didn’t know what it was then, but Yuuri looked around his room, at the opened card that signed a simple **_V_ ** instead of **_V III N,_ ** he looked at the first pile of clothes, made for a servant, the second pile, made for a seductress, at the third, a gentleman, and then at the fourth, a god.

He fell on his back on the carpeted floor, surrounded by dazzling costumes, and he closed his eyes, doing nothing but think, and think, and _think_ about everything that had been happening to him recently.

All the favoritism toward him by a Tsar who had never done such thing before, Victor’s general treatment to him, his protectiveness, the two pieces of music he played that were the exact same, the way he hated being addressed by honorifics, how he did not consider him a concubine, his violent reaction toward Yuuri admitting false love, his undivided attention when surrounded with so many other people.

He thought of Victor’s smiles, his compliments, his gentle touches, and the way he called him _‘darling’._ He thought of the way he played the violin, the way his fingers stroke Makkachin’s fur, and the way he looked at Yuuri with so much adoration. He thought of how, even considering he was a man of such majestic power, he was still sensitive and easily hurt by the most mundane things.

Until finally, all of it rained down, crashing on him like a rickety mountain of revelations.

When Yuuri opened his eyes hours later, he felt like a different man.

 

* * *

 

 

 “Yuuri?”

“Yes?”

“His Majesty called for you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 It was very easy to see the monumental difference in Victor’s bedroom now versus when it was filled with so many people earlier.

It felt more massive, its air more breathable, his own presence much louder and significant, and Victor’s even more so, as all focus shifted to him sitting on the corner of the bed, his posture tense, but his deference toward Yuuri still clear.

“I would call you cruel for running away from me a third time,” Victor said in false and blithe disregard to the current situation, hands joined and pressed against his forehead. “But I know you had no choice.”

Without being told to, Yuuri shut the door behind him and tediously made his way to the centre of the room, which was none other than Victor himself.

He hugged the book he was carrying to his chest and lifted his free hand toward Victor, but he was struck with not _knowing_ what to do with it.

Yuuri wanted to speak, he truly did, but he found that he had so, _so_ much to say that it was near impossible to compute and express it all. How could he begin to tell Victor everything he had come to realize? All the misdeeds he had done? All the false, sordid assumptions he had made? It was so clunked together, so intertwined, so overlapped that he had no idea where it all began or ended - if it did at all.

Besides, this definitely was _not_ the time for it. He had no choice but to push it all to the back of his mind to dwell on it later, preferably without Victor ever knowing about his internal debacle.

Hating himself passionately before he even did anything, Yuuri had remained standing in perturbed silence in front of the Tsar, so close, but too far to his liking.

He knew what he wanted to do; Yuuri had known the moment he was called, the moment he saw Victor in Mila and Lilia’s arms. But there was still an invisible hedge Yuuri couldn’t cross, no matter how hard he wanted to, no matter how well he knew that the man wouldn’t mind.

Victor sighed at the quietness. He lifted his head and for a split second, Yuuri saw his face, wanly and exhausted, before the Tsar clasped Yuuri’s offered hand and used it to jerk him forward, bumping his head against Yuuri’s abdomen.

The book fell on the floor, leaving his empty hand hovering just above Victor’s shoulder, so, _so_ desperate to touch him and turn the contact into an embrace, but he was too stunned, too cowardly to do so.

Victor inhaled heavily against his shirt, his entire form relaxing. “Ah, I _knew_ it was not the scents they bathe you in...”

Yuuri had no idea what he was referring to. “Sorry?”

“You smell nice.”

“Oh.” It took Yuuri a long moment to find a reply to that. “You think so?”

Victor nodded against his stomach, and for a while, none of them spoke.

Yuuri’s lips thinned, cursing his inability to form one, _one_ coherent conversation between them and feeling increasingly worried about how solemn the Tsar was being. His worry was intense enough to overcome his cowardice and finally put his hand on the Tsar’s shoulder. The spike of warmth was immediate in his palm.

His skin seemed to start burning when Victor’s hand moved to cup his, yet, that was the only response he received. Victor made no attempt to speak, to explain, or to even _talk_ about the horror that took place hours ago. Yuuri had expected to have a bigger role in comforting him, not to just stand there for the Tsar to take in his presence.

Perhaps, taking in his presence was all the Tsar wanted, but it was definitely not what he _needed_ , did he?

“Are you… are you alright?”

Yuuri winced at how stupid his own question was.

The Tsar took another long inhale. “No.”

A torturous minute passed by with him waiting for an explanation before Yuuri completely lost his patience. He tightened his grip on Victor’s shoulder and found his voice, “Would you _please_ tell me what had happened?”

He had expected Victor to either scoff his pathetic meddling or dodge the question entirely, but instead, the Tsar nodded and recalled, with much more details than Yuuri foresaw, the incidents that had been taking place these last couple of weeks.

Victor Nikiforov was a reactive but also heavily proactive Tsar, something he promised to be when he found an empire being passed down to him in a state of complete disarray.

Being reactive meant entering his court each morning, receive information from his counsellors about current affairs requiring his intrusion, then set to deal with them accordingly, simply meandering.

Being proactive, however, meant being much more involved, much more aware and prepared. It meant dealing with things that did not require immediate attention, but if not dealt with, might accumulate in the future into calamities.

Rebuilding the Grand Chapel, which was subtle in its failing state but still deemed to collapse in a few years, was one of those things.

The way Victor described it, the place was nothing short of a public peril. Although he wasn’t a religious person, the Tsar did not intend to make that a public knowledge, thus he never failed to attend orations every other day. And during his visits, instead of focusing on his love and devotion for the divine, he focused on the creaking, musky pews, on the water droplets escaping from the numerous cracks in the ceiling and gathering in tiny pools on the floor, he focused on the limited space and the people left with no choice but to stand on their feet, he focused on the wind escaping a few broken windows, and most importantly, he focused on the chilling cold that would later linger in his bones even after leaving.

Victor had been planning to rebuild the chapel for the past year and a half, and those two weeks were when he put the plan in motion.

Since it was the Grand Chapel where most of the town residents attended, it had been agreed upon to only tear it down once a temporary chapel had been built in the outskirts of the city.

“I had been most excited about it,” Victor smiled weakly, “Ah, Yuuri, I’m not much of an architect, but the blueprints took my breath away, I wish you could see what they created. A building of the same size, but thrice as spacious, warm, and pristine. A chapel truly befitting my beautiful city, one looking like it had been touched by God himself...”

The ardour on Victor’s face was hard to look at, especially with how a moment later, it all dissolved away, especially his smile.

“I don’t understand.” Yuuri told him honestly, “Nothing about this could ever elicit such violent reaction.”

“You’re no more surprised than I am.” Victor now covered Yuuri’s hand with both his, rubbing his thumbs wherever. “You would think I’d no longer be naive after eight years on this throne...” His lips clipped together, “But here I am, falling once again into the stratagem of my enemies.”

“It’s _that_ political?” Yuuri frowned, “But who would make an enemy out of you? And why?”

“The very entity I’m trying to aid.” Irony laced his voice, “Sadly, the Faith of Russia has never been adherent of my work, or existence, for that matter...” he shrugged, “Our relationship had always been quite tenuous, the Faith and I, even in my days as a Tsesarevich. I’ve had no choice but to try to lessen their influence over the years lest they’d interfere in every aspect of my life, private and whatnot. It had worked, to a degree...” he let out a tired breath. “When I proposed my plan to rebuild the chapel, I had no idea that I’d be framed so horribly, given that they seemed so cooperative. The rumours were quite absurd, but people tend to follow clergymen blindly, I suppose.”

“I know.” Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut. Nobody was more familiar to the power of _rumours_ and _clergy_ as much as he was. “I know. But what is it that makes the Faith so averse to you?”

“Well, the separation of the church and state might be one reason, I don’t think they were too thrilled about that...” he cringed, “But then again, that was due to me reaching the limit of my tolerance…”

“To what?”  

“That, darling, is a story for another time.” Victor’s intonation changed when he went on, and Yuuri did not dare press further. “Anyway, it was supposed to be inside information, but they went ahead and spread the news that I’d be tearing down the chapel soon, without my authorization. But it got worse; words of my dislike to the Faith circulated, my mocking of their religion, my distaste for their practices… And, ah _goddamnit,_ I wouldn’t blame my people for being defensive when it comes to something so fundamental to them. It might not have been my intent, but it looks exactly as they claim. Me disregarding the Faith and monstrously destroying their place of worship. I’ve wanted to bring joy to my people, not… not to _enucleate_ the city.”

Yuuri had no idea what to do or say. He had entered a new domain and was left, once again, to navigate unfamiliar territory. It was unlike him with Minako, where he poured every ounce of his pain into her like a basin, unlike him with Yurio, where he absorbed all the boy’s troubles like a sponge and made them his own.

Victor, well Victor seemed composed enough, but nowhere near comforted. Instead of pouring or absorbing, he seemed to share his pain with Yuuri, like the other would have any answers. _‘We don’t discuss these matters.’_ he once told Phichit, and it was for a _reason._   

Yuuri was left in a stump where almost _any_ solution he offered would sound like him overstepping, meddling with things that did not concern him.

Yet, it was impossible to say any empty encouragements or shallow words of support, because Victor must’ve been hearing them all day, and Yuuri wanted to _do_ something. He didn’t want to be cast aside as a faceless person in a sea of followers.

And besides, Yuuri wanted to show Victor that he could help, that he could read the situation very clearly, and honest to god, the solution was far too clear.

“Then... why don't you make your plans known?” his voice quivered. The urge to assert his help won, for sure. “One announcement is all it would take, wouldn’t it?”

Victor nodded, making Yuuri sigh quietly because _thank goodness,_ he had not said the wrong thing.

“That's exactly what my counsellors are begging me to do…” he smiled warmly, reaching to stroke Yuuri’s cheek. “You people are smart, but I, unfortunately, am a very stubborn man.”

Well, Victor surely made his words sound useless, but at least he put Yuuri on par with his counsellors. That was far better than another faceless follower, or anything he hoped for.

“There’s a reason why I had been so secretive.” Victor’s thumb grazed Yuuri’s chin. “You see, my people love me when I surprise them, and I shall, just like I have continuously been doing since the beginning of my rule.” The corner of his lips lifted, talking adoringly as if the group of protestors surrounding him earlier were only misunderstood and not attempting to murder him. “I can handle their dismay for a year or two until the chapel is built. They reckon it won’t take long, since the foundation is already there.”

Yuuri did not like the sound of that, and he had barely noticed his heart beating faster and faster at the thought. “What… what if you were attacked again?”

“My, my,” Victor tilted his head, rapt but teasing. “Is my Yuuri worried about my wellbeing?”

Yuuri’s face fell.

 _“Of course_ I am.” He wanted to say much, _much_ more, but he feared that he would break down crying right then and there. His throat felt constricted enough as it as. “I thought- I _thought-”_

He cut himself off and looked away before the tears started to fall.

“I’m relieved.” He heard Victor say, and a sudden and unprecedented urge to slap him came to mind, but he held himself. “I thought you’d still be upset with me. I’ve… never seen you like that before.”

Yuuri met his eyes and Victor’s smile faltered. “Aren’t _you?”_

Victor shook his head. “Being in a near death experience... it revealed to me how utterly mundane everything is.” He shook his head again, as if to further his point. “The knife was aimed at my heart, Yuuri.” He slid Yuuri’s hand to palm his chest. “Right here.” Yuuri caressed the folds of Victor’s shirt, trying to feel for any scratch or graze that Victor might’ve overlooked. “It’s so… _reminiscent_ of what I said to you that day. It’s quite morbid, really.”

Under his hand, Yuuri felt Victor’s heart frantically beating. “Then do not make stupid promises.”

“Oh, Yuuri, but I did keep my promise, didn’t I?” He chuckled, “No knives to the heart, not when Otabek, heroically and recklessly, had stepped in and took it instead. Thankfully, he’s a short man, so it got him in the shoulder.” His smile turned into a frown, all amusement gone. “For some reason, Yurio thinks that he was the one about to be stabbed. I think it’s due to shock; he was several feet away.”

Somehow, Yuuri finally found something to say to further the conversation. “What were you thinking then? When it happened?”

“I thought, _‘That’s it. I’ve become my uncle. I’ve failed my people and now my empire hates me.’”_

“They don’t.” Yuuri found himself saying. “It was a singular case, I’m sure of it.”

“Aye, but my mind wasn’t there, to be honest.” Victor’s heart beat much faster. “When I saw you at the door, and you ran away, I thought, _‘Yuuri does as well. He doesn’t have a reason not to.’”_ He took Yuuri’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing one of his knuckles. “But I’m still _here,_ and I want you to have a reason, I want you to have many.”

“I already do,” Yuuri told him sternly, shaking his head. “Many... _Many.”_

“Oh.” Victor laughed a little, unconvinced. “You’re surely hard to read then, darling.”

Yuuri stared at him, astonished when he shouldn’t be, not when he never considered Victor’s side of everything, not when he never thought of how his actions, or lack thereof, might seem to Victor.

Like then, when Victor’s confidence seemed to falter the longer Yuuri looked at him blankly, when his usual hollow sadness appeared the moment Yuuri snatched his hands away, moving away so they weren’t touching anymore.

Once free, Yuuri did what he had been aching to do since the moment he came inside. He sat next to the Tsar, gathered all the courage he did not have, and hugged Victor as tightly as he could, just like Mila did.

Of course. _Of course_ Victor wasn’t able to see it, because he himself had only realized it tonight.

Victor’s arms fell around him and Yuuri pressed his face into the man’s collarbone, breathing in his essence and relinquishing all his hesitations once he was finally where he wanted, in the arms of someone who needed him, someone _he_ needed. Suddenly he was pulled out of an ocean of doubts, fears, dirt and blood, and was instead surrounded with a comforting ambience of roses and lavender.

“Yuuri,” Victor said absently, with his chin resting on Yuuri’s head, his hands running against his back. His voice was far away and he took so long to continue that Yuuri thought that he had forgotten what to say. “Have you ever been close to dying?”

Without dwelling on the consequences, he nodded against his shoulder.

“Hm.” Victor considered for a long, silent minute. “What did _you_ think of?”

He remembered a balcony, a garden, a marble fountain, harsh winds and melting snow. He remembered the echoes of the universe’s laughter, and the drowning, and drowning, and drowning in two abysses of a uniform colour.

Yuuri’s eyes fluttered, narrowed, then closed in resignation. “You.”

And he left it at that, turning the air tense with his confession, Victor’s soothing touch against his back becoming tense. The shock, and perhaps the pleasure that it gave Victor, was very short-lived, for it took him a moment to realize that Yuuri was talking about a recent event, rather than an old recollection.

“Darling,” he sighed, talking softly, bone-tired, as if he didn’t have the energy to be mad anymore. “Will you _ever_ tell me who the culprit is?”

Despite himself, Yuuri started chuckling sardonically, a call for Victor to tighten his hug before he started crying again, which the Tsar instantly complied.

“There _is_ no culprit.” He went on letting out more truths in a span of one conversation than he had had in years. “No one wants my death more than _I_ do.”

 _There._ Yuuri felt his whole body slumping against Victor, slowly drowning in the comfort of his presence. _There, I’ve finally said it._

Victor was a smart man; Yuuri doubted that he’d believe him, given that the past couple of attacks won’t make any sense in that context. After all, Yuuri wouldn’t have punched himself in the face or slapped himself while Mila watched. Yet, he wished that Victor would believe him and finally forget about the ongoing nonsense that wasted the Tsar’s valuable time.

And Yuuri, never failing to contradict himself, hoped that Victor _won’t_ believe it, because the man will wonder _why,_ and worse, he might even demand to know, which was something that no even Michele, the bearer of his secrets, knew fully.

But all Victor managed to utter was a tired, “Oh.”

Yuuri felt both shame and guilt, the former for doing something that many considered a sin, and the latter for stressing the Tsar when he was supposed to be the one _comforting_ him.

“It doesn’t matter.” Yuuri told him, “It’s nothing.”

Victor’s seemed to work on a protest, but he shook his head, letting it go. “Be that as it may,” he sighed, “But, here’s something to think about next time…” Victor was pulling away from him ever, much to Yuuri’s chagrin. One of Victor’s hands moved to lightly frame his cheek. “No one _dreads_ your death more than I do.”

Yuuri pursed his lips and turned his head away, but not for long before Victor’s hand was on his chin, making him look at the determined and lucid eyes of his.

“No one.” Victor repeated.

Yuuri breathed out. _“I_ was supposed to here to comfort you.”

“Were you, now?” Victor’s eyes crinkled, bumping their foreheads together. “Not really, no. I just missed you, is all.”

Yuuri could hear the amusement, can understand the flirtatious tone and can tell it wasn’t true, but he still felt fear creep into him. Victor sounded too much like his dream version when he said that, _too much._

To distract himself from that irrational fear, Yuuri bent down and retrieved the book that had fallen from him earlier, piquing Victor’s curiosity.

“What did you bring with you, darling?” the Tsar secured his arm around Yuuri’s middle once he sat upright again.

“You said you read every single book in your library.” Yuuri examined the cover like it was the first time he has seen it, completely lost in thought until Victor hummed affirmatively. “So I- I brought this to read for you,” he held it close so that the Tsar could see it. _‘Ravissante’_ , the title, glowed on the cover in a metallic golden font. “It’s from Lord Chulnanont’s personal collection. Translated from Thai to French.”

Victor smiled genuinely for the first time that day, gazing at Yuuri and silently scrutinizing him for what felt like a minute or two.

 _“You_ are lovely,” his smile only widened. “Have I ever told you that?”

For a moment, Yuuri was about to retort that yes, he has, many times, but the compliment managed to make him stiffen in place, a faint blush dusting on his cheeks at the unexpectedness of it.

Until Yuuri took a glance at the book’s title again, and the nervousness turned into abrupt bubbling in his throat. And the next thing he knew, Yuuri was laughing for the first time in front of the Tsar.

By the way Victor snickered and kissed his forehead excitedly, Yuuri gathered that his plan to comfort the Tsar had somehow worked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Yuuri stared at the glass wall with so much intensity he wondered if it may crack and break by the sheer force of it.

It was a clear, cloudless night graced with a full moon, and from where he sat, Yuuri could make out the outline of the St. Petersburg shore, a sight only accessible from the northern side of the castle.

Yuuri perhaps never paid attention, or perhaps considering the hazardous events, the servants had forgotten to draw the curtains that night. But he saw, with clarity, what looked like a razor thin, silvery horizon.

And he stared, feeling troubled and reminiscent but not _remembering_ why.

Something about that scene was so familiar, so nostalgic, and so troubling, but Yuuri couldn’t place what it was exactly.

He felt a hand brushing against his shoulder, sliding down his back in tender, featherly contact, snapping him out of his strange and unwelcome trance.

“Come back here.” Victor’s voice was hoarse, thick of slipping consciousness.

Yuuri still detected the momentary dismay that came with his request, and he felt guilty for making Victor think he had escaped again.  

But not tonight. Tonight was when Yuuri stayed.

So he obeyed, returning to his previous position, slithering into the cocoon of Victor’s limbs, sheets, and pillows, his back flush against Victor's chest. The Tsar held on to him, his head buried in the crook of his neck.

“Victor?”

“Mhm?” Victor croaked out, then lazily opened his eyes to process what he heard, sounding delighted to hear his name. “Yes, my Yuuri?”

“You want to make your people happy, no?” Yuuri’s own eyes were becoming heavy with sleep. “By surprising them?”

Victor smiled against his neck. “Correct.”

“Well,” Yuuri yawned. “If you think about it... now is the best time to surprise them.” Victor went rigid, and Yuuri was half-certain he was asleep. “They’re already upset and expecting the absolute worst. If you wait, their anger will fade, and they won’t be half as surprised when it happens, really.”

Yuuri knew that now, more than any time before, he had interfered directly with things far greater than him.

The counsellors, after all, had been begging him to do it, and Victor had stubbornly declined. And Yuuri would later realize that all argumentative voices he heard in Victor’s room earlier were coming from his family, his cousins, uncle and aunt, advising him the same thing.

But as it was, he was far too drained to care, not even noting the murmurs that came out of his mouth at that point. All he knew was that his chest ached whenever he remembered Victor’s state upon his entrance, how so far into despair he seemed. And he wanted to help.

 _“‘Words travel faster than wind, and even the walls have ears.’”_ He went on, mumbling into the air. “Say the inside construction remains heavily guarded… All it would take is one eyewitness and a few whispers for the truth to break out before you could have a grand reveal.”

Victor, who Yuuri doubted had the ability to ever ridicule him so, did not seem dismissive, did not dissect his words, or try to put him in his place. He merely sighed and kissed the side of Yuuri’s neck, encouraging him to fall asleep and forget about such things.

Yuuri remained awake, however, though he was content because at least, he could never say he didn’t try to help.

Yuuri eyes remained fixed on the scene that overlooked Victor’s quarters, and that was when he finally remembered.

The never-ending horizon, the sound of crashing waves against the rocky shores that only existed in his mind.

He remembered how, many years ago, the scene elicited an untamed pain, desire, and _want._ The want of travelling out of his current dimension and exploring what was beyond.

It was a presentation of the sin that was his freedom.

Now, however, it only signified his imprisonment. He had broken his chains and crossed over to the other side. He had seen, he had explored, and he had witnessed horrors he never knew existed.

Crossing over again meant returning to his earlier cage, but not to dwell on his petty loneliness any longer, but to await his execution.

It was time. It was finally time for Yuuri to let go of his dream, to spit it out of his system and focus on the present, on what was important.

Whether he had intended it to be this way or not, it was right then when Yuuri was as free as the universe would let him. Right there, where Victor needed him so badly.

He rolled around, burying his face against the Tsar's chest, his hands reaching out to wrap around his body the same urgent way they were on him.

“You’re affectionate tonight.” Victor chuckled, his lips pressed on Yuuri’s forehead. “If I knew it’d take an assassination attempt, I would’ve faked one long ago.”

Yuuri smiled.

Perhaps it was just that night. Perhaps Victor and he would never have such raw, untainted, and intimate time with each other after this, but Yuuri cherished it, nonetheless.

That. That was important now. Comforting Victor was important. Making sure he could help with everything he had was important.

Victor found comfort in his company, and Yuuri offered it, as much of it as Victor would want.

And if what he wanted was to hold him tightly in the night and not hear advice about his problems, then Yuuri was content with just holding onto Victor in return, just as tightly, if not more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The very next morning, something took place which puzzled the Tsar’s inner circle to no end, but nonetheless made them happy and relieved.

And so was Russia, as it was suddenly blistering with her elevated love for her Tsar, who had made it a priority to announce the building of a new chapel as the first of his errands that day.

The protestors at the gates had turned into apologists overnight, the rocks being thrown had blossomed into flowers, and the vile words that polluted the air had become cheers of appreciation.

It was Yuuri of The Forbidden, and Yuuri alone, who had just asserted power that far exceeded his domain.

But Yuuri, who barely recalled their conversation the night prior, had gone with his day with the healthy smile of a man who finally came in touch with his own reality.

Unbeknownst to him, however, he was currently - and for a while now - in possession of great power and influence.

Yet, it was still merely a glimpse of what he was soon about to possess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\+ Kimono:** Traditional Japanese outfit
> 
>  **\+ La Chute du Prince Charmant:** The Fall of Prince Charming
> 
>  **\+ Mochi:** Rice cake
> 
>  **\+ Yokan:** Red bean jelly
> 
>  **\+ Nihon:** Japan
> 
>  **\+ Ushanka:** A Russian fur cap
> 
>  **\+ Yokatta:** 'Thank Goodness'
> 
>  **\+ Ravissante:** Lovely (Victor basically made a pun)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [shower scene](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171430157590/the-shower-scene-from-chapter-seven-of-his-was)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri and Victor](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171609084430/he-pushed-their-foreheads-against-one-another)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri and Makkachin](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171430767415/shitsumon-abound-thank-you-so-so-so-much-for)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:**[Yuuri and Minako](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171429999660/for-your-regular-dose-of-shitsumon-abounds) (comic)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri and the Merchant](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171430362850/such-a-precious-merchandise-the-man-who-had)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri and Leo](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171430594395/so-glad-shitsumon-abound-showed-how-awed-leo-was)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri dancing for Victor](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171431074120/still-awed-by-shitsumon-abounds-talent-dont)
> 
> (All these wonderful drawings were made by the talented, the great, and the beautiful [Kou](http://shitsumon-abound.tumblr.com))
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri and Leo](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171851421800/another-wonderful-drawing-by-betterthan2nothing)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri and Michele](https://betterthan2nothing.tumblr.com/post/175489564279/only-only-if-michele-didnt-decide-to-open-his?is_related_post=1)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri and Phichit](https://betterthan2nothing.tumblr.com/post/176692485544/the-complete-work-i-had-so-much-fun-doing?is_related_post=1g)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Yuuri, Victor, and Bianca](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171850935665/gently-victors-hand-settled-on-his-cheek-making)
> 
> **\+ Fanart:** [Victor](https://betterthan2nothing.tumblr.com/post/175073910984/i-colored-an-old-drawing-with-a-new-brush)
> 
> **\+ Character design:** [Minako](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171466163745/miss-minako-character-design-and-wardrobe-by)
> 
> **\+ Character design:** [Yurio and Otabek](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171467821685/tsesarevich-yurio-and-ser-otabek-character)
> 
> **\+ Character design:** [Sara and Mila](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171469199890/tsarevna-mila-and-sara-the-handler-character)
> 
> **\+ Character design:** [Victor](https://al-killer.tumblr.com/post/171470335625/tsar-victor-character-design-and-wardrobe-by)
> 
> (All the above were drawn by the wonderful and ethereal creature that is [betterthan2nothing](https://betterthan2nothing.tumblr.com/))
> 
>  **\+ His Was Gold discord:**[link](https://discordapp.com/invite/aEYmHaM)
> 
> **\+ Alternative song for this chapter:** Axel Johansson - [The River](https://youtu.be/Nla5XQGjgOI?list=PLdZtZXfZaOo_MAmDkgz85iDgUBNR9MPua)
> 
> Another perfect song (definitely Victor's POV this time) was provided by HWG's faithful and dedicated DJ, [Shadows](https://nyx108stars.tumblr.com) <3
> 
> _Can we stay inside?_   
>  _Lay here by the fire_   
>  _Please don't let me go_   
>  _Say it ain't so_   
>  _Leave me in the night_   
>  _With no warning sign_   
>  _Are we burning out?_   
>  _Mirrors and smoke?_   
>  _-_   
>  _We could lay here_   
>  _Underneath the river_   
>  _If you stay_   
>  _We could sleep here_   
>  _Underneath the river_   
>  _If you stay_

**Author's Note:**

> Ask/message me anything on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/al-killer)


End file.
